


Devour a Sunless Day

by oneinspats



Category: Lord of the Rings (Movies), Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-12-18
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-10-27 12:39:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 43,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/295954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneinspats/pseuds/oneinspats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A playing with the plot. Grima leaves Saruman's service before the battle of Pelennor fields and meets up with the Rohirrim. The usual 'must prove that he is a somewhat vaguely better man than he was before' begins. There are some heroics, some musings, some temptations (of all sorts), and lots of purple prose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. When trees shall fall and starless night devour a sunless day.

**Author's Note:**

> It's been posted elsewhere, just thought it might be enjoyed here as well. Please leave comments, am always open to suggestions.

There was a grey stretch when morning was sometimes forgiving and let him have a quiet minute to watch the sun slip up to oily once blue skies. It was a grey stretch of absence and even the work had gone silent. The groans of ancient trees had gone silent. Mills churning water and fire were still. The creatures that may have once been elegant and graceful and elvish but were now distorted, mindless remnants of something lost, were quiet. A shadow of what once was, a whisper of memories no longer remembered.  
He knew the old stories because the wind had told them to him as he fled Rohan. Tangled them in his hair, whipped them across his face, and left him aching, knowing, and raw. He wondered if this was how Gandalf felt, knowing. If this was how the elves felt and why they were running. Running so they wouldn't have to know anymore.  
The grey sky darkened as the days moved forward. It was night though the sun had risen. Shone through the barely there line between corrupted earth and polluted heavens. He remembered the clear blue of the morning, watery milk with flecks of gold. He remembered the stars and the moon though the no-longer-white wizard sneered when he spoke of them.  
The elves were leaving. Men were dying. Orcs were breeding. The hour was late. The shadow was spreading and he was sinking. Sinking and watching as the ever eternal sun was swallowed whole.  
Shadows, shadows, whispers, of a nameless fear.

Sometimes, when he slept, he dreamt. He dreamt that he could see fire. Fire and rock and an unbearable weight tugging on his neck, scorching his chest, pulling him down till he was crawling on rock with bloody fingers.  
His master, the no-longer-white wizard, had laughed and said that a dream from him was nothing. Was empty of meaning, devoid of content. There was no reason why a man such as he would have dreams that meant something. He was no Faramir, no Aragorn, no Eomer.  
'Perhaps it's a memory,' he had offered. Saruman had raised an eyebrow, skeletal fingers arching a perfect, musing arch.  
'What a novel idea. When have you ever suffered something like that?'  
He hadn't answered. Bowed out a 'of course, my lord' and thought to himself that it meant nothing. That it wasn't important just as he, himself, wasn't important, just as the cloud spreading black over once blue skies wasn't important, was something not to think about, to avoid. A plague. A truly white wizard had once called him a snake, a worm, filth and he now thought that those had been kindnesses. The no-longer-white wizard calls him much worse.  
When he had been a boy he had a dream that the Simbelmyne would die. The Evermind wouldn't be there forever. Would cease to bloom like the White Tree of Gondor, the descendant of the great Galathilion, had ceased to bloom. His mother had laughed, kindly, her hair had been golden and he had envied her for it. She wondered aloud where she had gotten such a serious boy, swept him up in her arms and said that so long as the skies were blue and the sun rose golden the Evermind would bloom.  
But the skies were black now and the sun was red and where was his mother? She was dead. Dead and wrong.  
That night he dreamt of Theoden-King being consumed in flame, of Eowyn slipping into darkness her pale beauty gone, of Eomer watching with growing shadows on a broken face. He then dreamt of a mountain and of fire and a feeling burying itself into his stomach, a fear that even if he got there – would he be able to do it?  
He woke knowing he wouldn't.  
He woke knowing he would fail.

'I am not a man who puts much store in dreams. I am not a man who believed in prophesies unless they come true, or are old, or were sung by the elves, or will serve as something to hold onto.  
Eomer had found me by my desk once. When we were still speaking and Theoden-King was still strong. Saruman was white, then, Gandalf was grey, and Sauron was still vanquished. Eomer placed a thin volume in front of me, blue elvish silk, strong Gondorian leather, smelled of shire weed. I hadn't known about the shire then.  
I asked – What is this? He answered – A book of fables. Could-be's, would-be's, should-be's. What do you make of it?  
I brushed it off then. - Hear say. Nothing more. Rumours, whispers.  
It's a thin volume with thin pages, worn, loved, read, and reread – hidden in my robes. I thumb pages in the quiet of twilight the same as Eomer had thumbed them. I read of rings and elves and battles and suddenly find myself wishing that I had held his hand, pressed the book into it and said to him – memorize this, Eomer-eventual-King. Memorize this for it will serve you more than a sword, serve you more than I ever will.'

At night he layed still on cold floors and heard the Wizard speaking to Sauron. He heard them making plans though he didn't know how Saruman was doing it. Gandalf had the palantir and Aragorn had been more right than he could ever imagine. He hadn't known whom he was throwing it towards, whose head he wanted to see bashed against black stone so blood ran thick and dark and immaculate. He wished that it had been Saruman and that his aim had been more true.  
At night he laid still on cold floors and remembered because dreaming had become too much. He remembered Eomer as he forced him to flee. He remembered Theoden's eyes as they slowly clouded over, a thick haze of barely-there remembrance. He remembered his mother as she lay dying of something they couldn't afford to cure. He remembered Eomer and his silk bound book, his love of the unknown, his need to be as noble as the blood in his body would let him. And Eowyn. He didn't remember Eowyn. If he remembered Eowyn he would break. Instead, he remembered the pale milk-blue of the morning, the strong gaze of the noon sun. The pure white of the Evermind.

Once, an age ago, there had been learned men who studied in the darkness of Orthanc. They had been the great minds of Gondor when Gondor had still been great. They would walk, careful dusty steps, up to the pinnacle to stare at ageless stars and marvel at their beauty, their terrific beauty and come to understand how things like war and death and blood exist. Because you cannot have one terrific beauty without one terrific horror. And even in the horror there is beauty.  
But this was when there were three great towers of Gondor, instead of two terrible towers of Mordor. He had long stopped considering Isengard separate from Mordor, no matter how much his master wished for autonomy. His ability for agency, free action, smooth thought, was gone. He was more a prisoner than Grima though he would never know it.  
Orthanc itself was carved from a single block of stone. Smoothed down and moulded into a shape that was impressive, that instilled awe. It was a dark stone, a black stone that arrested your gaze, forced you to admire, to fear, to understand everything that was Orthanc, that was Isengard. Or had. Till the living stone of the walls of Isengard had collapsed, had broken and taken down with it everything he had once thought invincible, had once thought if not right then necessary. He didn't consider himself a bad man, merely a desperate one.

He had forgotten what food tasted like. Only had a dim memory of water. Instead of eating like a man he was fed crumbs on the floor like a dog, stooped low and gathering what he could with fingers thin and shaking. His robes hung loose, his eyes were sunken, his face disappearing itself from the world.  
Saruman had said it wasn't worth it to feed a worm but he kept him on the edge of consciousness so he would have something to beat when the mood took him. Grima thought that Saruman would do self harm if he wasn't there to take the blows. And a once great man shouldn't do that to himself, no matter how far he had fallen, how hard he had landed. He told himself he was making himself useful in some manner. He was sure of it. He just wished he would be fed properly.

There were stories, he recalls. Stories from when he was a boy about trees that walk and take strides that cover meters as if they were nothing. As if they were after thoughts along the way to a great big thought. His father had gruffly told him to stay away from the forest. You can't trust what lies beyond the veils of moss and leaves. Elves live in forests and men can't trust elves let alone creatures that are as foreign as these forest shepherds. But he had wanted to see them, he had tried to see them. Once running away, stealing his father's horse, in order to stand within a whispered sigh of the darkness of Fangorn. He had felt a cold breath exhale from the trees, ancient, breathing of times long past, from ages before Man.  
And now. Now he stares out at them, watches them as they watch him annoyed with their seeming impassiveness. The leader, Treebeard, had looked at him hard one day and the gaze had reminded him of Gandalf's gaze when he had offered Saruman a chance. Saruman, yes, but not he, Grima. A worm wasn't worth a thought let alone an offer.  
 _'hroom, hroom_ , young master Grima, you do not have to remain there,' it was gruff when he said it and Grima was reminded of his father only to quickly forget. He tried not to think about his father when he could. 'Don't be too hasty in your choices. You might make a mistake. There are those inclined to mercy...' His voice, hoarse and rough, trailed off. His eyes were on the horizon and watching. Carefully as they watched the door of Orthanc, as they watched the broken walls of Isengard.  
'I know where there are grain supplies. I know where there are riders who will help them. I know where they can find more horses, more guards, more men, something like hope. Maybe. Though I was never one to deliver it.' A quick speech given in haste with a whisper. Treebeard seemed not to have heard.  
'I wonder, _hroom_ , sometimes what will happen at the end. Then I am reminded that it matters not but what happens now. Two little hobbits reminded me. _hroom_. I wonder who will remind you.'  
He went silent. Mouth agape, fishlike, a new adjective to add to the grand and creative collection already associated with him. All were animalistic and he thinks that he perhaps fits them. He is too cold to be fully human, too distant, too calculating.  
'Do you know, master Grima, what the sound is of a tree dying?'  
He didn't. Shook his head, mute. Mind all the while wondering what the world of men was doing, how the world of men was faring. Were they dead? Were they alive? He felt he had to know.  
 _'Ah – hoom_ , It is when you call their names and they do not answer. It is when you sing to them and they do not sing back. It is silence.' Treebeard moved so Grima could see him, the moss and the lichen and the vines. The leaves dead and alive, the notches where animals hid. 'Do you know silence, master Grima?'  
'Have you heard from Gandalf? Do you know what is happening in Gondor?'  
'I think you don't know. _Hroom, when stride is long, and breath is deep, and keen the mountain-air, Come back to me! Come back to me, and say my land is fair!_ '  
'I don't follow.'  
 _'Hoom – hoom_ , you should spend a week breathing in mountain air. Westward brought and eastward carried. You then will understand.'  
He pulled away from the creature, back into the shadows of stone that is strong and hard and bare as bone. And silent. Treebeard spoke of the silence of death. Grima found that he lived the silence of life.

Sometimes, at night, orcs would appear. The ones who had survived the march of the ents, the fury of the forest, of nature defiled and seeking revenge. He would huddle in darkened corners, hiding in shadows that had once served him so well. If he was quiet, they sometimes forgot he was there . If they remembered his existence -  
He didn't think about it when they remembered. Instead he would close his eyes and remember poems and stories and things that were harmless and beautiful and more than he deserved.

Sometimes he remembered Eomer. Sometimes he remembered watching him ride. Sometimes he remembered that he had appreciated the fire that was in the Eorling's blood. Sometimes he remembered the amusement he had felt when he realized Eomer thought he wanted Eowyn. Sometimes he remembered her cold distance, her glacial beauty. She was too much like him for there to be any desire. She was too frozen, too arctic, too cold in her anger and her thoughts.  
Sometimes he remembered Eomer's eyes that were blue, but a very there blue and when moved they were so blue it hurt. Sometimes he remembered that he was of Rohan born. Sometimes he remembered that his mother had fair blonde hair, pale green-blue eyes, that his father had it as well. Sometimes he remembered that he was a horse-man, that he was of the same blood that ran through Eomer and the people who were dying. Sometimes he remembered that his sister had died two years ago when the wild men had attacked. Sometimes he remembered that he hadn't felt anything but now was beginning to understand what Treebeard had meant.  
And sometimes, when he was lucky, he remembered to forget.


	2. Tall ships and tall kings Three by three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A playing with the plot. Grima leaves Saruman's service before the battle of Pelennor fields and meets up with the Rohirrim. The usual must prove that he is a somewhat vaguely better man than he was before. Purple prose ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A continuation. Then a meeting. Then it is March 10 and there is darkness.

A moth tangled itself in his hair as he stood on the balcony, watching water shift and change with passing the tide of ents. It whispered stories, news, and tales to him. Gondor had lit beacons, he could see them on the mountains, Rohan would answer the call. Rohan would be loyal and true. A lesson should be learnt.  
And it freed itself – Grima, thou art shaken, thou art terrified, but there is freedom in chains self-fashioned. Your mother's people are dying, your father's people are dying, your people are dying and you are dying and the world is dying.  
Moths do not speak. But this one spoke with its wings and soft, subtle movements, its cool grey flutter. It was gone as he reached to free it. Above him the clouds parted, there was the moon and stars. He would chose his prison, and Orthanc was not it.

The once-white-wizard who had forgotten his name and lineage and duty to Middle Earth caught him by a torn sleeve and hoisted him up against a wall. The Voice of Saruman was no longer silk, was no longer smooth and soothing but rough, cold, harsh. Spit hit his face, his hair was caught in spindle like fingers and pulled back. Black spiderwebs on black stone held there by a black heart.  
'Thinking of fleeing, Worm?' Snarled, not asked. He quaked. Shivered. Looked away with those pale blue eyes that Eomer had described as weak, watery. 'Thinking of seeking mercy with them? You are hardly deserving.'  
And he was dropped, a solid thud. Air knocked out of his lungs and he was gasping on all fours with lights dancing before his eyes.  
'They would sooner string you up by your guts, feed you to their dogs and leave the bones to carrion.' A kick to his stomach and he fell forward, cheek hitting the cold stone.  
Managing to look up through the haze before his eyes, aware of pain blooming elsewhere, not sure its cause, he snarled – 'At least they would have the courage to kill me and let it be.'  
Saruman pulled away, looking up then to side, his figure seemed tired, exhausted, afraid. He left the room and a pair of orcs entered. Grima smiled, there was blood in his mouth, on his face, staining his hands, his clothes. He dimly thought that it wouldn't wash out. How silly of him to get it on clothes and hands. It wouldn't wash out.  
One of the arcs grabbed his hair, wrenching him up, breathing foul breath into his face. He closed his eyes, a poem coming back to him. He remembered a forest and a creature and something like mercy being offered.  
 _When winter comes, the winter wild that hill and wood shall slay;  
When trees shall fall and starless night devour a sunless day;  
When wind is in the deadly East, then in bitter rain  
I'll look for thee, and call to thee; I'll come to thee again!_

\--

Treebeard had spoken of the silence of the woods. The silence of trees dying. He had forgotten to speak of the thickening of the air, the stillness of the depths of night, the emptiness of sound. Holding himself together at the seams he stumbled along, ignoring the aches and screams of his body. The forest was pressing in around him, consuming his sight, his breath, his thoughts.  
It was night, he was dimly aware. Or his body was trying to tell him it was night. He couldn't see through the trees, through the blackness and all consuming dark that was their branches. Falling to the ground he managed to curl into a semblance of comfort before passing into a state of sleep. He had forgotten that to dream was to be aware and to be aware was to be in pain and Grima Wormtongue hated pain beyond anything.  
He dreamt of a dawnless day. A dawnless day that would be ever lasting night. And it would reign in chaos and terror for five days till a stunning light would break from west to east and all would learn to be well again. He dreamt of the mountain, again. With fire and lava and rocks and his knees bleeding into bloody ground. He dreamt of grey sails and grey boats and grey people leaving a haven that had once been great. He dreamt of golden fields that were like golden hair and blue eyes that were very blue and when angry were so blue it hurt. He dreamt that he couldn't forget those eyes or those people because he was them and their blood was twining on the field and destined to fall all at once. He dreamt of trees moving, of earth sifting, of a lessening of the world so that all that was now would be myth and all that was left would be Man. Even the hobbits would be forgotten, the wizards reduced to fables, the elves left to the memories of the old. He dreamt of the sun setting and the moon rising and the world starting anew. But then it was the dawnless day again, and fire again, and he was shivering when he woke.

The edge of Fangorn was a blessing to see and he nearly wept from relief. A weak gaze of a March sun shone down on him. There were shadows moving in the trees, the cold exhale of a breath, the forest was forgiving him. The forest was letting him go.  
Staggering towards the Gap of Rohan he dimly thought of maps of how the gap sloped, slipped, and gently sank into the Westfold and then to Edoras and from Edoras to the Eastfold across the Mering to Anorien and he would die before he ever reached Gondor. Before he could ever try and explain what everything was, how everything was, why it was, and why it had been the way it had been. Before he could ever try to explain himself, and the creatures of this world and the next help him, he was not a man who liked to explain himself.  
It was noon and the sun was no stronger than it had been at dawn. He was in rags that had once been glorious clothes, rich and comfortable but now hung lose and awkward on his too thin frame. He stumbled forward, over a dead orc. Eorlingas had been here. Dire deeds awake, he could hear Theoden whispering it to himself, singing it to himself, dark is it eastward. Let horses be bridled, horn be sounded...Forth...Eorlings. It had been the last thing he had said before slipping into a state of near consciousness. The last cry of a warrior king heeded by none, mocked by one.  
The orc had an arrow through its eye, flies laying their larva in its flesh. Days old. The smell wafted up and his light headedness increased and the sun was setting he was sure, rising again suddenly, the world was spinning, the cloud of Sauron increasing, Saruman was reaching for him with thin spiderweb fingers, orcs were using him, the sun was there in the between state of night and day, the riders of Rohan were riding. The orc under him was dead with an arrow in his eye. His sister had been dead with an arrow in her chest, her son in her arms. His mother had been dead with a disease he didn't know the name of. The plague? Maybe. There had been whispers.  
Then it was darkness. And he wished himself away.

 

It was darkness still when he woke. A moving darkness. He slept.

 

It was light when he woke. Thin, feeble light. A moving light. He was moving. He slept.

There were mountains in his view. Blurry outlines of rocks, crags, jagged edges and jagged trees. He wondered if the trees in the mountains sang like the trees in the valley. He wondered if Treebeard knew the names of these trees, if he knew their songs and their lives. He reasoned that the shepherd would. He knew such things as this and Grima found that he, himself, knew nothing.  
He was stilling moving, hands tied behind his back but gently, he was slumped against someone, head to one side. He couldn't move, his body refused. So he watched the rocks pass and the trees and shrubs as they went from hills into mountains. Blond hair in his sight, strands from the rider he was against. Rohirrim. Good, he thought. He would be strung up by his guts, flesh fed to the dogs, bones left to the carrion. But it would be a death he chose, not one chosen for him.  
The sun was setting, softly, softly. And so he slept. They rode on through the night. He slept.  
 _Forth Eorlings! Forth! To Dunharrow we go!_

He woke. He woke and was on his back, staring up at mountain walls, cold and grey but more alive than the cold dark walls of Orthanc. Closing his eyes again he breathed in the air, the smell of horses, of men, sweat, food, ointments, blood, mountain air (keen mountain-air), a cold air and a thought of fear that he couldn't place. Dunharrow, he thought. We are close to the dead and damned.  
'Is he awake?' A voice asked, rough, annoyed, frustrated, afraid.  
'Not as yet.'  
'How long?'  
'I can't be sure. He hasn't eaten anything, nor drunken anything. He needs rest.'  
'We don't have time for rest and we don't have men spare to guard him.'  
Guard – his body protested the opening of his eyes. He wouldn't be running anywhere soon. A flap was pulled back and candles brought in. A healer was leaning over him, inspecting his eyes, his face, his chest. Behind him was shadows, behind him was confusion, behind him was anger, behind him was Eomer. The golden princeling was watching with guarded, darkened eyes. He had forgotten the way they became when confused and angered and tired. Then they weren't blue but very dark as the rivers in spring and just as cold. He closed his eyes.  
'Grima,' Eomer was suddenly over him. Uncertain. He was awake now and the healer seemed resigned to the situation. 'What were you doing when my men found you?'  
'Inspecting the dirt. Very closely, I think.' His voice was rougher than he last remembered. The trees hadn't required his voice to know him. The plains of Rohan hadn't wanted it. It had heard enough from him.  
'What mission has Saruman sent you out on and what caused it to go so clearly afoul?' His was still that distant, distant Eomer he remembered. But still that fire was there and he still envied him that passion he seemed to have for life. He had forgotten how alive men were. They smelled alive. Not old paper and cold water like Saruman. Or foul earth and foul deeds like Orcs. But rather fleshy, bloody, sweaty – alive.  
'I was on no mission from him.' An abrupt stop, coughing and he could taste blood again. 'Am on a mission from myself.'  
'Which is?'  
'To die by a hand other than his.'  
The healer stirred, moved forward into light with fussing hands and eyes. He was all attention and readjusting bandages over bruises, cuts, gauges of missing flesh, burns, scars, incisions, whatever words existed in the many tongues of Middle Earth to describe his body for whatever it was it was not whole.  
Eomer left in silence, brow furrowed and hand twitching about his sword. Part of him would love to bury the blade into Grima's chest, he knew, and the other part was trying to be as noble as Aragorn, to prove that he would be a good eventual-King.

Theoden-king asked to see him and he found himself being dragged up, dressed in a plain tunic, and taken to Theoden's tent. Eomer was by a table eyeing maps, sipping wine, and looking annoyed. Theoden was stronger than he last remembered, more aware, more intelligent, more alive. He watched as Grima sank onto his knees and wasn't sure whether it was out of fear, obedience, false loyalty, or exhaustion. There was silence except for a candle hissing, a horse nickering.  
'Wormtongue.' Spat, Theoden moved so the table was between them and Grima was still on his knees wondering what the smell was but it was good. Theoden was speaking still when he realized it was food. He had forgotten more than its taste. ' – Thus it leaves me with an interesting problem of what to do with you. Part of me wishes to kill you now for it would be as much as you deserve. Another part wishes for you to be punished more for your treachery and yet Gandalf and Aragorn council me to patience and mercy. I fear I have neither for you but my nephew-heir seems to.' A tired sigh as he sank into his chair, rubbing temples and finally showing his age, his fatigue. 'But he is younger than I and perchance less set in his ways than I.'  
'My lords,' stuttered out, Both turn and stare as if noticing him for the first time. 'I beg you, please...' he trailed off, aware that he wasn't sure what he wanted. His life? Mercy? Death? All three? Eomer moved first, standing with slow, studied movements, eyeing him and Grima wondered if they thought he could actually flee.  
'Have you eaten?' Asked and those very blue eyes were somewhere above him, over his head, his shoulder, but never on him. He was on the ground and Eomer's sight didn't sink that low.  
'I – I don't believe so -'  
'You will be fed. This is war and we can't have you dragging.' The princeling nodded to a guard and turned back to the table and Grima felt hands hauling him up again, thankful for them as he knew he wouldn't have been able to rise on his own. He was given some stew, a bit of bread, a mug of ale and left by one of the fires. Men watched him with wary eyes that weren't truly seeing him but rather Wormtongue and Grima wondered when he had changed back into Grima. Sleep came easy, he was slumped over with head resting on a stack of armor. Dreams were harder to bear. He was thankful that no one payed him much mind, he couldn't stand to see their pity and anger and mistrust.  
He was woken a few hours before dawn but only the changing of the watch told him as much. There was no thin grey line, no promise of sun. He had dreamt of a dawnless day -  
'Lord Eomer wishes to see you,' and the tone conveyed the man's dismay at Grima's receiving a royal audience twice in an evening. 'He says you should look smart. This is-'  
'War. I know.'  
The man scowled, nodded brusquely and pushed Grima ahead of him, one hand resting on sword-hilt and Grima was tempted to sneer, to snarl, to fight, to do something other than limp along and think of food and sleep and sun.  
'I received a message that you know of a way to access a supply train.'  
Eomer's greeting was said softly. He felt a hand on his arm and found himself being brought to the table. Theoden was looking ill at ease and he wanted to say that he couldn't whisper words of poison anymore for they hadn't been his, they had been Saruman's and he wasn't Saruman's. And he had forgotten the potions he had given him, forgotten the unguents he had forced into him. Truly, sire, he didn't remember and if he did, he wouldn't do it again. He had forgotten that even after an endless night there was always a dawn. And even after a dawnless day there would be night again and a sunrise again and things would be set right.  
'They are Saruman's. I'm not sure they're still active,' whispered into still air. Testing, testing, softly, softly. No one stirred. Theoden's gaze flickered over to Eomer. And Eomer was watching him with still as a pool eyes, crystal shards, unreadable. He swallowed and looked to the map. 'He had them brought up through here,' finger traced over the mountains, past Erech into the Eastfold. 'They were for when Edoras...'  
'For when Edoras fell,' Eomer finished, softly as Grima was speaking. 'Do you think they are still accessible or will they have turned back?'  
'I don't know – they should do. If you have money they'll be more than willing to cut a deal.'  
'We have arms,' Theoden muttered. 'I'll have no business dealing with mercenaries and brigands.'  
Grima winced. There was silence and outside the wind whistled through the tents, around the rocks and cliffs and trees. Outside it was silent. Outside it was night though it ought to have been dawn.  
'We have little time, we move out in a matter of hours. If we come upon them...' the sentence trailed off as the king stood, hand splayed on the table, gnarled. 'We will make use of them, should we come upon them.' A wave of his hand and Grima bowed, body reacting to old habits.  
The wind brought a March chill with it and the men were huddled about the campfires, watching flames with desperate faces. Grima pulled his thin cloak around him and found a small place to sit, warming as best he could wondering how Treebeard had gotten the message to Eomer before he had arrived. Maybe the wind carried it, maybe the stars told him, the trees whispered it. Closing his eyes he remembered a soft grey hum, a flutter of silent wings and he thought that perhaps a moth had carried the message. Silent and faithful, unnoticed, in a dark night, in these dark days.

It was March 10 and there was no sun so they marched in darkness.


	3. Ride of the Rohirrim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A discussion about Dreams. A continuation of a Ride. And a Battle.

'I had a dream, once. That it was a dawnless day, like this, and there was nothing we could see that was good. It was chaos and men were dying with their own blood on their lips. It lasted for five days though it felt an eternity till there was a light, a bright light from the west and spread to the east reigniting the Sun that had forgotten how to rise. There was a mountain too, and fire, and rocks. I think I was crawling.'  
    'You have dark dreams, Grima Wormtongue.'  
    'I've seen little good to dream about, Lord Eomer.'  
    'You've caused little good. Go on. Mountain, fire, rocks -'  
    'And there is a moth, I think. It's small and grey and flutters about my head reminding me of old tales and prophesies.'  
    'You had once told me they were nothing to be minded by men of reason.'  
    There was silence. The horses were moving, the army was marching – _forth Eorlings! Forth!_  
    'I was wrong, I think.'  
    'You were wrong about a great many things.'  
    He said nothing. Turned to stare at mountains and to wonder about who was climbing one made of fire.  
    'Do you ever dream of memories?' Eomer asked it lightly, he pressed a flask of water into his hands. 'I sometimes do, of when I was a boy and playing with Theodred. Sometimes there is a white horse and we're chasing it, running till we come to a river, Snowbourn I think, and the white horse is across it. Theodred always says that we shouldn't cross, that we should stay here but I forge ahead, swimming till I manage to get to the other shore.' He paused, watching the men in front of him intently.  
    'What happens to Theodred, my lord?'  
    'I don't know. I look back and he's gone. I look forward and there's the white horse. I move to catch it but never do.'  
    'Hm,' non committal. Grima remembered his mother saying that dreams are important, that they have meaning. He remembered hearing of the steward of Gondor's son having dreams that meant something, that were portents of the future. He apparently dreamt of a boat with the horn of Gondor in it. The boat was severed in half, the horn was broken. There were whispers then, that Gondor would fall. Grima knew those whispers were now screams. That the boy had been right.  
    'I usually wake up then. Or I just can't remember.' Eomer looked up to the sky, down to the earth. Both were polluted. And Grima wanted to say that yes, he had dreams that were memories but he didn't like to think on them because they reminded him that he had a sister but she was dead, that he had a mother but she was dead, that he had been a Eorling but that part of him was dead. That he had once been a man as any other but he had died and someone named Wormtongue had replaced him. Instead he shrugged, shifted, wheezed, wondered if there were broken ribs, and glanced back to Eomer to find the younger man's gaze fixed on him.  
    'Do you have dreams of the past?' Asked again. There would be a response.  
    'No. Can't say that I do.'  
    And Eomer knew he was lying but said nothing. Grima wondered if it was Eomer's resignation to his character, the belief that Grima Wormtongue was a man incapable of telling the truth, that hurt. Or perhaps it was that Eomer knew the truth but understood that sometimes you couldn't speak of it because it would be too much so lies were better.

  
    They rode. Rode hard and fast through night-days and only a dim understanding of what they would face prevailed amongst the men. At night they watched with wary eyes all that passed.

  
    They rode with the wind at their backs. Pushed the horses as far and as fast as they could. Sometimes Eomer would speak to him. Sometimes he wouldn't. Sometimes he would and wouldn't at the same time. Grima found it exhausting.

  
    They rode and hoped that they wouldn't be too late. If they had worshipped Eru they would have prayed to him but as it was they were Men and not Elves so they kept their passionate cries and wishes to themselves. They slept fitfully on hard, broken ground and dreamt of death.

  
    They rode and rode and the days were a blur. They shivered at night, huddled in groups around fires, spoke of home, of their wives, the beauties they had left behind, the ones they would never see again. Some cursed the king, some cursed Gondor, some Mordor, some cursed him as he stared forward into flame but he was used to curses so found he didn't mind overmuch. At night fears came unwinding from the safety of men's chests and they told each other what they wanted – take my sword back to my son, my shield to my wife, this necklace to my daughter, a piece of hair to my lover. Tell my boy to be strong when I'm gone, tell my wife to be strong, my daughter, my brother, my sister, mother, father, friends. And you, yourself, be strong.  
    Eomer found him on the third night and they had already crossed into Gondor. The land was different, the air breathed heavier, richer, the sky was darker. He knew that had the sun been shining it would have been harsher, the stars more bright, the moon more milky pale white – everything was more in Gondor. Something the men of Rohan understood with the same ease that they understood the working of the world, the rising of the moon, the setting of the sun.  
    'Is there a message you want passed on?' Asked to him because all men were asking each other – is there something you want to say? What are your last words? I'll record them in the permanency of my memory for none of us will make it into the annals of history.  
    'No,' he shifted over so the eventual-king could sit more comfortably. The men around the fire dropped their voices to a low rolling whisper. 'No one to leave it to.'  
    'If there was someone?'  
    He shrugged. There was nothing to say, 'I'm sorry' wasn't strictly the truth and while he didn't mind lying to others he tried his best not to lie to himself. Or had decided that from now on not to lie to himself. Last time he had done so he had ended up here. With an angry king, a half dead people, a history of lies, deception, treason, and a princeling watching him with wary, uncertain eyes.  
    'I was never one with much to say,' he managed at last. Eomer looked disbelieving.  
    'You were always the one with the last word. And what's this now? Penitential silence, it doesn't suite you Grima son of Galmod.'  
    'And I've never heard of you forcing a confession, Eomer son of Eomund.'  
    Around them the whispers picked up, an ocean of wishes, desires, dreams, un-lived lives. Eomer went silent, watching him watch the fire. The fire was watching them all.  
    'Where is the horse and rider? Where is the horn that was blowing?' Eomer paused, the men around him waited for more. Stern faces making a stern circle. There was nothing but for the crackle of the fires, the sound of horses, the shifts of men trying to be silent, to be unnoticed.  
    Grima pulled his cloak tighter, ignored the pains in his legs from the ride, his chest, ribs, entire body protesting the forced movement. The necessity of movement. The poem was finishing itself in his mind - 'They have passed like rain on the mountain, like a wind in the meadow...'  
    Eomer nodded, slowly, accepting. His voice was deeper than Grima's, more rolling, 'The days have gone down in the West behind the hills into shadow.'  
    The group nodded, the poem would remain unfinished. Eomer handed Grima a tin mug of mulled wine. They drank in silence.

  
    They camped the next night where they could see one of the lit beacons of Gondor. It danced in the wind, whipped around, crying desperately for help. Reminding them that there was a reason for their deaths, for their eventual slaughter.  
    'I think you forgot some of the poem, from the other night.' Theoden said, coming to stand next to Eomer.  
    'You were there?' Absently asked, though the older man could see the uncertainty of the princeling. 'It didn't seem the time to finish it.'  
    'It is the time to finish all things, Eomer. If you don't now, when will you?'  
    'We may yet win this, uncle-king.'  
    Theoden smiled, a faded tired smile and nodded. Yes, yes, we may yet win this. You may yet win this, but I don't think I will be coming back. 'You will be a good king, Eomer. You are strong and fair minded. But be mindful of who you trust.'  
    'Who shall gather the smoke of the dead wood burning?' A pause, Theoden nodded for his nephew to continue. 'Or behold the flowing years from the Sea returning? ... Is that what you wanted to hear?'  
    'I didn't want to hear it, I needed to. Find Grima, I've a mission for him.'

    There was a need for information. A need for the gathering of it and if there was one person for whom information was life-blood it was Grima. Searching amongst the men Eomer soon found him awkwardly adjusting the saddle on his horse.  
    'You were given Eorl? A kingly horse for one such as you.'  
    'I've always aspired to greatness,' deadpanned. The strap was put in place, thin fingers moved the next. 'Have you come for the show? I'm sure Gamling would love to join. Perhaps a few others – though I might have to charge.'  
    'My uncle-king wishes to speak with you, He has something for you to do.'  
    'Charming.'  
    'Glad to see your tongue has returned full strength and just as lovely as before.'  
    The tent was dark barring a few candles on Theoden's table, wax slowly dripping onto wood, marring white on dark brown. The king was staring intently at a map, as if his entire life depended on it and perhaps it did. Grima wouldn't have been surprised.  
    'Uncle?' Delicate as glass pause. 'I've brought Wormtongue.'  
    Theoden looked up with a grim expression, gnarled hand in a fist on the table, covering Mordor as if through that act alone the older man could vanquish the shadow. Instead the candle flickered, darkness danced.  
    Grima had seen men age quickly, Saruman aged in a night after Gandalf had left, after the palantir and even his usual amusements hadn't amused. He had been merciful, said Grima would get off lightly that evening. Only a few hours instead the entirety of the endless night. Grima had seen his father age a lifetime in a week after his mother had died. Hidden away in the ground in a wooden box without even a window to see the sky above. Her eyes had been closed, the only time she had ever looked peaceful. He had seen Eomer age, not a lifetime but visible enough, after he had been banished. And he had caused the aging of Theoden. Before. Before it all had ended and this had begun. But none of it compared to the aging that happened in front of him. A result of desperation, of exhaustion, of a need for hope, a clinging to last measures wishing that some sign would occur, a proof of their rightness and Sauron's wrongness.  
    'Saddle a horse,' the king's voice was rough. 'You're going to scout.'  
    He wanted to protest, to shrink back into shadows and night and slither along the ground like the snake he was, to scuttle away from duty and death. A look from Theoden and Eomer escorted him from the tent, hand tight on his arm, eyes that cold winter-melt-off blue.  
   

    A day and a half's hard ride, Eomer had said. But you can do it easily on horseback alone, just enough food to last. You've gone hungry before, you will go hungry again. But you will survive. Snakes always survive. They find a way, a nook or cranny to delve into, to twist themselves around; a dead animal to feed on. You will find a way.  
    And he did. Eyes straining in dim light he found a way. The horse heaving under him, hairs glistening with sweat, breath fogging the air, he found a way. There were orcs marching south to Gondor, creatures he couldn't name marching south, Uruk-hai marching south. He hid in the brambles and bushes, scurried up trees and watched. Silent and watching. Eyes weak watery blue and watching. Black hair greasy and pulled back, face hawkish, gaze intent – watching.  
    He had heard a story of a creature that had once been like a halfling but less so. The creature had been consumed with madness and a hatred for the light, for the sun and moon and stars and so abandoned this world for one of darkness. That creature was important to this story, he knew. That creature was part of the cause of this story. His former-no-longer-white-wizard-master had cursed its name the same as he had cursed his. And sitting in a tree, his horse hidden well, watching a band of orcs crossing the plain, he wondered if he would become like that creature. Cursed, hated, and hiding from the light that showed truth. In this world, in this war, in these battles – we all become monsters.

    He found the Eorlingas when they were but half a days ride from Gondor. He saw them come over a hill and first was breathless in remembrance of the grace of horses, the power of Rohan. But then he saw it; the sagging of the left flank, the age of Theoden, the mindless exhaustion of Eomer, the raggedness of the men. Starved looks, frightened looks. Ready for death but desperate to avoid it at every turn. We are so human, he thought. Finding his arm being taken by Eomer, their horses close, their legs touching. The princeling was looking concerned, worried. It wasn't for him, surely, but for everything else. It was the first kind touch in years. We are so human, he thought. We will never win this.  
    'There are forces already gathered,' he began suddenly. Eomer nodded, face suddenly unreadable. 'Hundreds of thousands. I heard one of the orcs saying it – they were late but all were welcome. Gondor may well have fallen already. Mercenaries are coming from the sea, up to Osgiliath and are attacking from there.' A shuddered gasp. 'My lord, we are going to die.'  
    'I did not say you could speak so plainly.' Bitten back but the advice, the truth of the statement had been acknowledged. Theoden watched them with a grim expression.  
    'Eorlingas, we march on.'  
    And they did. And the new day dawned. There was smoke in the horizon. Gondor was burning.

  
    Grima had never seen an Oliphant. He had seen trolls, orcs, Uruk-hai, Nazgul and their flying beasts – but he had never seen an Oliphant. They were in fables, stories, bed time tales that gave you fantastical dreams. They were not real. Oh how he desperately wished they were not real.  
    'I think I pissed myself,' a man next to him muttered. 'Oh my sweet life blood I just pissed myself.'  
    'Well...best get on with it,' he replied with a grimace.  
    'Get on with what?'  
    'Dying or winning. If you die you're past caring about soiled clothes, winning and you get new ones.'  
    'Lovely-'  
    A arrow shot down and the man fell backwards off his horse. Grima cursed and tried to move to the side but the line of advancing Oliphants was too quick. An arrow whisked past his face. He could feel blood on his cheek, neck – he charged forward, uncertain of what he was doing and figuring that if he waved his sword about he was bound to hit something.  
    'Graceful.'  
    He glanced quickly behind and Eomer was laughing at him, hewing through orcs with apparent ease. If he didn't feel as if death was eminent Grima would have admired the younger man. As it was he just tried to mimic him with little accomplishment.  
    'You've never fought have you.' The princeling worked his way over, slowly, carefully. Horse pushing some of the smaller orcs out of the way.  
    'No. Man of words, not swords.'  A pause. He hacked repeatedly at an orc. 'No time like the present to learn, I suppose.'  
    'Eomer was still laughing - 'I think he's dead.'  
    'Just making sure.'  
    A hollow whisking sound and suddenly more arrows were being fired. Grima cursed and spun about, moving himself out of the line of fire. A shout, glancing back and Eomer was lost in the battle. Only his helmet appearing as he reared above the fray. Pulling the reigns he turned Eorl about but found orcs in his way. Grinning with yellow dog teeth they made their way for him. Charging forward on Eorl he found himself suddenly in the air, gasping for breath, he landed on his side with dust and blood in his mouth, eyes, nose. Coming back to he could make out men fighting, orcs screaming, Oliphants rampaging, horses dying. A dim thought drifted through his mind, how long it would take to replace the loss of horses. How much would Rohan make from grain supplies if traded perhaps north rather than always south to Gondor? Accounting ledgers whispered in his ears, he was staring at internal revenue supplies. Sometimes he could hear his mother singing but she was dead so he forced her to stop.  
    A hand grasped his hair and hauled him to his feet. An orc grinned at him, eyes as yellow as its teeth. Pulling out a knife it licked the edges. Grima felt a wave of nausea rise up, threatening to burst.  
    'Hmm, sweet man-flesh and blo-' It stopped, looked down, looked up then fell backwards off Grima's dagger.  
    'Wish I had a witty remark to make,' he muttered, kicking the body before trying to find his sword.  
     
    He wasn't sure if it had been mere minutes or hours since he had seen Eomer. A battle, he quickly learned, was timeless and tiring. Everything in him was aching, willing him to let the next orc strike home, to let the next arrow hit, to stand still as an Oliphant came towards him. To die. Wouldn't this be a noble death? A redeeming death if he believed redemption worth the effort?  
    There was a sudden silence on the field a silence and a sinking feeling in his gut before the screech echoed across the land. The Nazgul had arrived. The screech worked its way down to his marrow and suddenly he wasn't in Gondor but in Rohan and they had found him, were twisting his body, asking him – Shire, Baggins and he knew, and he told and after he hadn't moved. Lain still on the ground his blood ice in his veins. Saruman said he had been lucky, had been wise to tell for it had meant his life. But as he found himself on his knees, hands grasping at ears, needing the noise to cease, the cries to disappear, he wasn't as sure.  
    No man will slay the Witch-King of Angmar. Saruman had said it once with glee. No man will ever slay him and so he is a useful weapon. Sauron will send him into battle and the kings of men will fall.  
    Then another shout filled his ears – Eomer – saying something about needing help, about having too many. He waited for someone to answer but there was nothing but the cries of battle, the shrieks of the Nazgul and he found himself moving towards the younger man. Wading over dead bodies, dead horses, men, orcs, boys.  
    Eomer nodded to him as he made his presence known through a quick stab into an orcs back – over the heart. The one swift way to kill someone he knew. Poisons were of little use on the field – excuse me sir, Orc, would you care to drink this draught I've prepared?  
    'You're catching on,' Eomer grinned, sword swinging through a mercenary. 'We'll make a warrior out of you yet.'  
    'I've grave reservations about that.'  
    'Nonsense. Just need some training. What you're getting right now is great.' He stopped for a moment, busy with a sudden increase of enemy bodies for it was more than just orcs – men from the edges of Middle Earth had also joined in. 'First rate experience, this.'  
    'I'll keep that in mind. Not sure I'm too keen on repeating it, though.'  
    'Come off it, you're enjoying yourself.'  
    Grima turned with a smirk that quickly changed to a frown as he lurched forward, sword missing Eomer by inches and sinking into an orc behind him. The smirk reappeared as he made to pull the sword out when the air was knocked out of his lungs again. It felt as if he had been punched in his side. A pain seared through and he groped down to find a dagger and blood and dirt, his fingers closing loosely around it. Eomer was saying something, sword still flying. Mouth was moving, lips shifting to create words, but he heard nothing. Something solid was under him and he was on his knees, hunched before falling over lying so the sky was above him, earth under him. He needed the sky above him. If he was to be buried he wanted to tell Eomer: If I am buried, my lord, Eomer, my Eomer son of Eomund, burry me with a window in my coffin so I may see the sky through the dirt. I don't want to be in a small, dark box. I don't want to do this -  
    He thought of the sky and how dark it was, how black it was, how the night had come very quickly. Too quickly. And he thought of the ground, cool earth, warm blood, and the rising sun.


	4. And do you trust your king?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Age of Man.

  
There was something pleasant about sleeping till the day was mostly gone and rolling slowly out of bed to a lazy afternoon of lolling about gardens and having quiet conversations with one's sister, one's friends, people one admires. There was something in it and Eomer found it was a life he was willing to indulge in for a few moments before the inevitability of Kingship firmly set itself upon his shoulders.  
    'But this begs the question of what to do with him,' Eowyn was standing by the white tree of Gondor looking as faire as the morning sun Eomer had so missed. And happier. For all that had happened she was looking happier. At peace, calm and maybe something had happened to make her quiet her forever restless soul. Or maybe someone had happened and Eomer felt the familiar ache of loss beating itself against his chest; the surety of the knowledge that he will loose his sister was a surety he was avoiding for the moment. He needed to let the peace last as long as it could for him.  
    'I haven't decided yet.' And this subject as well, continued to rear itself always right when Eomer had managed to stop thinking about. 'He did save my life,' a sigh, frustrated, tired. The war was over – weren't they supposed to all end happily now? The stories of old never said anything about repairing wrecked kingdoms, salvaging a life from the shreds left over, burying the dead. The stories never spoke of burying the dead. All those bodies that had fallen. He had seen piles of bodies before, but they did not equal this. The stories never spoke of the ache, the bone shattering _ache_ of abandonment. Of loneliness. Of loss. Heroics were fine, but they hadn't saved his friends, they hadn't saved his uncle, they hadn't saved a part of him that had died on the field. They hadn't saved the part of his sister that had died as well.  
    'But what he did to our uncle, our _people_ Eomer-'  
    'I know, believe me Eowyn, I _know_. I think about it every time I see him... skulking about.'  
    And there it was – the glimmer of a smile, the memory of a laugh.  
    'He does skulk, doesn't he? I hadn't noticed it before.'  
    'Didn't have cause to.' He stopped, watched a bird fly past. The sky was clear now. The shadow was gone and he felt at rest for the moment. 'I do wonder though, if he is truly sorry or simply saw a chance to save himself. Aragorn thinks he may truly regret his actions in Rohan.'  
    'Brother-king, this is Grima Wormtongue. He's not one to regret, or change. Keep him about if you must, but make him clean the floors, the horse stalls, weed the garden. Make him understand that he isn't worth the dirt of the ground you walk on.'  
    A tired sigh worked its way through the now-king's body. They hadn't spoken of their uncle. They wouldn't ever speak of their uncle. Or of Eowyn's arm. Or of Eomer's fear. Or of Grima Wormtongue's sudden heroics. They wouldn't speak of things that hurt because these were new days and the the dark ones had passed. Let all that had happened then lie still, buried, gone.  
    'I will see what I can do with him. Now tell me, Eowyn, this Faramir seems to hold you in high regard,' and he smiled at his sister's sudden flushed face, pleasure in her now clear eyes. 'He best treat you well or he'll have me to answer to.'  
    'He's a good man, you don't have to worry.' Her voice trailed off but Eomer knew what was hanging onto the edges of the sentence, clawing at the space between them. You don't have to worry about me, but I worry about you. This is a new world, a new age, and we have no one here to guide us.

  
     
    'We descend from the race of Númenór the same as Gondor, though they think themselves superior to us but we superior to the dark races. This is folly, but I shan't discuss it. My brother-king Aragorn is of Gondor. My lady-sister is to marry a man of Gondor.  
    The Númenóreans are a race of men who came to Middle Earth after their own kingdom was destroyed.'  
    'The Akallabêth.'  
    'Yes, you know the story. The Fall of the race of Númenór. Despite the weakness of the race of Man we still honour those who survived. Who came to these shores and helped to create a new world where Men once again could prove themselves. In Gondor they honour their ancestors with a Standing Silence wherein they face-'  
    'West during a meal, I have heard of it Eomer.'  
    'Of course you have, Grima. But on the Field of Cormallen we praised a great praise for the Halflings, for the Elves, for Men. We faced west and honoured the strength of Númenór that so clearly has lived on in our blood.'  
    'Why are you telling me this?'  
    'You were ill still, you missed it.'  
    'Yes, I did.'  
    'I had thought you would have liked to know – never mind. It's all based on old stories, fables – you don't hold much stock in those, do you?'  
     
    'I do now.'

    There was a room in the palace that looked out to the rest of the city, plunging down below them. A spread of darkness broken with yellow lights, orange glows, red glitters. Sometimes a song broke the silence, and a sharp note from a flute echoed up stone walls, a bird caught it in perfect pitch, down the hall a man whistled back.  
    'How are you fairing?' The first honest question Eomer heard himself asking of the other man. There was a shift and grey fabrics moved as Grima turned to see him. Eomer seemed younger than he had last remembered, or less weathered, less beaten, less something.  
    'Well, Eomer-king.' His eyes were back out the window again.  
    'What are you watching?'  
    'The stars.' The pause required continuance and Grima knew that Eomer wasn't going to speak to fill the now beginning void of silence. He was too much a man of Rohan to be a man of words. But words were all Grima had so he used them well. 'I would sometimes slip out to watch them. When I was at -' hand waved, pale, and Eomer knew what the movement meant. _That_ place, Orthanc, Isengard, prison, the Void as legend would tell, Mordor for what it's worth, pain, darkness, sleepless nights – a movement of the hand and it encompassed all of that and more.  
    'You never struck me as a star-gazer.'  
    'At Orthanc men used to study them. Back in the days of Gondor's greatness. Not any more. Now men study only ways to gain power and keep it.'  
    'Do you speak of yourself or Saruman?'  
    The grey figure shrugged, black hair shook a bit. It didn't matter, did it? Who he was speaking of? They both knew Eomer was thinking of him and that was what mattered.  
    'We will be returning to Rohan in a few weeks. My sister and I, to bury our uncle-king.'  
    'Theoden.'  
    A movement and Eomer was in front of Grima staring at him with unreadable eyes. They reminded the smaller man of the cold stone of Orthanc only more alive.  
    'You've no right to speak my uncle's name.'  
    'Then what shall I call him, if not by his name? That is all we have when we're dead, after all. Some even less than that.'  
    'What do you mean? Speak plainly for once, worm.'  
    Grima's face changed, a twitch, he was looking over Eomer's shoulder at the sky. His eyes were open but shrouded, hidden behind layers and the princeling couldn't begin to unravel them. Part of him was wondering why he even wanted to.  
    'When we die it is our names that live on, yes? Deeds are only after thoughts attached to names. We think of Eorl not because of his deeds but because his name is a kingly one, Brego the same, Isildor – so on. And so we will come to think of Theoden-former-king not because of his deeds but because he has a kingly name and rests with the kings. But some, they aren't called by their own name in this life and so when they die their not-name will live on but their _name_ will die with them.' A significant pause, look, push of lips into a frown, and fingers bunching fabric. 'That is what I meant, Eomer-king.'  
    'Wormtongue - '  
    The older man smiled. It was wicked and cold and Eomer understood.

    There is a flower whose leaves belong in the hands of kings. Its petals are white, pure as Gondor's walls and the soul of the now-King. The faire-folk speak of it in poems, in songs, riddles, and tales. Grima had smiled and said that it was Kingsfoil – surely the name was familiar?  
    It came to our world from the Other World. The Númenóreans brought it with them as they fled their home, their land, their life. Fled their world to a new one – from earth to earth. In the First Age, shrouded in mist and shadow and memory, a Hound gave the plant to a maiden to help her lover survive. The world of the First Age is no more and so the plant was lost. Just as the blood of Men was lost. Just as the stories were lost. The memories were lost. And now they are found. And now we are all found.  
    There is a flower with a sweet sent and its leaves belong in the hands of the kings. It brings life to the dying, so long as in the king's hands it's lying.

    Sometimes Eomer would dream. And when he dreamt he was again at the Black Gates, again watching them open, seeing the hoards, the Mouth moving, grotesquely forming words. And again his sword was swinging, singing as it came down, impaling itself into flesh. And again there were men on the ground watching their innards slip between their sweaty, bloody hands; gasping as they drowned on their own fluids covered in blood, shit, and piss. Again he was watching as spears entered through the collar bone and out through the rectum, bringing grey intestines forth, eyes wide and stunned. Most had no idea what had happened.  
    And sometimes he would dream that he was suffocating, that there was a weight on his head bearing down pain on his shoulders, searing through his spine and when he would look up there would be a crown on his head and Theodred in a shadowed corner. _You are wearing what is supposed to be mine. You are sitting where I am supposed to be sitting. You are living the life I should have lived. I am dying the death you should have died._  
    Theodred, forgive me. But the shade would be gone before he could speak.  
    And sometimes he would dream that Grima was sitting on the throne and there were strings from his fingers to Theoden who was crawling on the floor as if he was a beast. And sometimes Grima would be by his side with face going more pale than the moon and blood would be on his lips and his hands would be limp and he would be falling and Eomer found that he couldn't move. He would stand and watch as the older man toppled over and again there was the stench of blood, of death, of decay, of battle. Somewhere horses were screaming as they died, or it might have been men screaming as they died for they sounded the same. And he would stand there as it all happened. Just stand there. With a crown on his head and Theodred in a shadowed corner.

    'You asked once if I dreamt of memories.'  
    Eomer looked up from his book, something tightened in his chest. He could smell blood, see strings slipping out from fingers, wrapping around him, around his sister, his dead uncle, his land.  
    'Yes.'  
    'I said that I didn't.'  
    'Yes.'  
    'I lied.' And Grima said it as simple as anything. He was standing by the door wearing grey and blue and black and looking like a shade, like he would fade away into the darkened hall behind him. Eomer set his book down, could feel the sun on his back, the warmth in his bones. He was alive, he was not frightened of the dead and dying.  
    'I know you did.'  
    'You didn't call me on it.'  
    'I didn't think they were good memories.'  
    'Some are. Some aren't.'  
    Outside a bird was singing. A songbird, beautiful blue and white feathers. Eomer had heard stories that the future Queen of Gondor was as beautiful as a sunrise, as powerful as a sunset, as wise as the midnight stars, as mysterious as a noon-day moon. Grima stepped into the room and something changed, shifted. Suddenly he wasn't a shade, a ghost, a memory – but solid and real and alive.  
    'Tell me a good one.'  
    'I was berry picking with my sister last night. But then she was gone and it was fall, not summer. I was riding through the Westfold, going to find her I think. She had her daughter with her and we were eating berry tarts. Aethlas was growing under foot and I was going to pick some because we needed it, then I woke.'  
    The sun was very warm and Grima was a few more feet into the room.  
    'I never knew you had a sister. How does she fair?'  
    'She's dead.'  
    'I'm sorry,' he sought the older man's gaze, held it. There was nothing to read. Just empty watery eyes. 'How? If I may ask.'  
    'She died.'  
    'And your niece?'  
    'She died too.'  
    Eomer had never hated a silence more. His fingers were on a book, a thin one with blue elvish silk and hard Gondorian leather. Grima spotted it and gave something like a smile that didn't reach his eyes.  
    'I best go,' he said. 'I just wanted to let you know.'  
    Eomer moved to stop him but he had already disappeared into that dark hall, into those shadowed corners to whisper memories and secrets and confer with the dead. The dead and dying. But then, we are all dying.

  
    'I told Mr. Frodo that one day stories would be told about him, like the ones about Mr. Bilbo.' The hobbit named Samwise was sitting by his side as they nursed mugs of ale. The Hall was empty, Aragorn having gone for a ride to see his people, and his court had felt that it merited a day off. 'I wonder if it will just be us hobbits telling them.'  
    'I think not,' Eomer said it softly and Sam smiled. There was something softer about this one, something different and Eomer was reminded of what Grima had said one night during the Ride – there are some in whom still waters run deep. Those are the ones you either trust or fear. Perhaps the name Samwise was a good one. 'Men will long be telling the tale of the two little hobbits who saved Middle Earth.'  
    'Do you think so, sir?'  
    'I know so. I'll have someone write it. Or would you prefer that honour?' He found himself smiling, honest and open, and wondered when he had remembered how to do that.  
    'Oh, I don't know sir. I think Mr. Frodo will. He said he might add it to Mr. Bilbo's book.'  
    'What will he call it?'  
    'Don't rightly know. Frodo's been very,' and here Sam stopped. Frowned. Stared at his ale. 'He's been very close, sir. If you know what I mean.' He looked at the other man and found the Eorling nodding, face still caught in a smile and painful understanding. 'But he will finish it, I think.'  
    'No.'  
    'Sir?'  
    'Someone once told me that stories are never finished, that we're all just writing new fables with our lives. So what we record is just one instance in this world. But,' a tired sigh. 'I suppose it's high time to spin some new stories. I've grown tired of the old ones.'  
    'Who told you that, sir?'  
    Eomer drained his mug, legs swinging over the bench. 'You know, I don't rightly remember. It might have been my cousin. Or my Uncle.' Or the man I've spent my life hating, he didn't think. Because honestly, he couldn't rightly remember.

    He had been told by Samwise, the wise hobbit, that Gandalf was to be found in the library. With the musty manuscripts, dim lights, cobwebs and dust. Samwise said that he could see Mr. Bilbo in there with Gandalf, if he tried hard enough. And perhaps Mr. Frodo now, as well. Who wasn't as in love with the Shire as he had once been. That had been said sadly, softly, and the hobbit had slipped off to some other room to think on some other thoughts.  
    'Ah, Eomer, I didn't expect to see you here,' the old man who wasn't truly a _Man_ greeted him with a glad smile. He wanted to make a joke about keeping his robes as white as they were but it died before it ever reached his lips.  
    'Felt the need to escape.' He fiddled with a book. Remembered seeing Grima in a small room much the same, with maps and papers and documents claiming that he was fixing the grain supply to the more destitute regions of Rohan. Eomer knew better now. He stopped thinking those thoughts and turned to smile at the wizard.  
    'From what? The court's quiet today.'  
    'From myself, I think.'  
    'Ah, well, I can't help you there.'  
    'I was never this introspective before.' Something like frustration was in his voice.  
    'Well the world has changed, it seems fitting that you should change with it. You're a king now, Eomer. Not just a rider of the Mark.'  
    'I never thought - '  
    'Most of us never think the things that happen to us ever would. We are tragically misled in that regard. But I think you came here for more than just idle chatter.' The smile was amused now as Eomer awkwardly sat down, pushing papers and scrolls out of the way.  
    The younger man waited a moment, eyes still searching the warm darkness of the room. 'I've a problem,' he said at last. 'Well a bit of conundrum. Grima Wormtongue.'  
    'Hm, yes. That is a conundrum.'  
    'Yes. And I was wondering if you could help me. Aragorn has always spoken of your wise council and from what I've seen I feel you are the right person to advise me on this matter. I put it to my sister, Eowyn, but we couldn't come to an answer.'  
    'What are your options?'  
    Eomer allowed a moment to pass, lining up the situation in his head. 'He is traitor and so I ought to kill him. That is the penalty for treason. But I'm loath to start my reign with a death after we've all suffered so much.'  
    'And?'  
    'And, he did leave Saruman and return to give us aid. My, my uncle was willing to pardon him if he rode with us and whilst he missed the battle of Helms Deep he fought with us on Pelennor fields. I'm uncertain still, though, as to his motive. Is he true? Is he going to be loyal to the Mark?'  
    The wizard sat back with a secret smile, there were shadows on the walls and the books and Eomer was feeling penned in, captured under the weight of those who had gone before.  
    'That is something that you won't know until he has died. Only then can the sum total of a man be accounted for. What you choose to do with Grima is what you choose to do with your kingship. It will show your people what sort of man is ruling them.'  
    'What would you do?'  
    'I?' A gentle laugh, rolling. Eomer was thinking of the ocean and grey lands far away; or a harmonious music that was the start of everything, even discord. 'I am not a king, Eomer. But as a counsellor I would advise mercy. Every man deserves a second chance. And even if you feel that he ought to die it is rarely in our power to choose the fate of those around us. Even kings must remember that they are human first.'  
    'So...what shall I do with him? My people may not be as kind hearted after everything -'  
    'Put him to good use. Can he work? Garden? Build? Tend the horses? There are plenty of things that need to be done, you'll find a use for him yet. But I wouldn't make him counsellor.'  
    The princeling smiled, 'no, no I wasn't thinking of that. He's more than proven himself incapable of that role.'  
    'Not incapable, Eomer. Rather, not worthy. He is a capable man, a talented one if I may be so bold. But also one that you should be mindful of.'

    An old legend says that there were serpents who dwelt up in the north. Snake monsters that slithered about in the darkness of caves, the safety of cool underground caverns. Dwelt where the sun nor the moon nor the thousands of stars could reach them. They mated once with men. Dark, northern men whose eyes were serpentine, flesh cool to the touch. Eomer thinks of these legends sometimes, when he's watching the sun set and wondering what sort of man he is to become.  
    'My Old Gaffer said that to truly know a man you have to see what he wears under his clothes.' Samwise was sitting with him, smoking pipe-weed and looking perturbed. 'Mr. Frodo still wears mithril under his clothes, like he's still afraid he's going to die.'  
    'We're all going to die one day.' It was meant as consolation but he knew that the hobbit could hear the emptiness of it.  
    'What do you think of it? What my Old Gaffer used to say?'  
    'It's funny, I suppose. I always thought you wore your skin under your clothes.'  
    'That's what I thought, too.'  
    'Then we're birds of a feather.'  
    But Eomer was thinking of scaly flesh and snake-eyes. If you pulled off the grey robes what would Grima be wearing? Or would you peel them back to see his serpentine scales, his warm snake flesh?

    Aragorn came looking for him when there was news that the Captains of the West were planning to sail to Osgiliath and come to Minis Tirith for the coronation. Eomer didn't think he could bear hearing about plans and the future and the needs of the kingdom and the nervous-not-nervous soon-to-be-King.  
    So he hid.  
    He hid in an empty room down an empty hallway leading off from an empty hall.  
    He hid and Grima found him.  
    'Do you make it a mission to haunt my steps?' He asked it, staring determinedly out the window.  
    'Only when asked to. Lord Aragorn wishes to speak with you, his brother-King.'  
    And Eomer swore he heard a sneer in the too soft voice, swore he heard derision. But turning he found Grima looking mild and faintly bored.  
    'Your mother was from the north?' He asked it not knowing why. Grima shrugged.  
    'Some have said her mother was from the north. I wouldn't know, I never asked.' A pause. Another shrug. 'She looked enough like a child of Rohan. But it would explain -' a vague gesture to his hair, his face, the lean frame that was anything but Rohirrim despite his being a man of the Mark. 'Why do you ask?'  
    'I was thinking of snakes the other day... Lord Aragorn wishes to see me?'  
    'He does,' a sly look. Eomer remembered that information, for Grima, was life blood. 'Didn't say why. Snakes?' He laughed. It was cold as a winter stream. ' _That_ old tale, again? He said he was in his study. He seemed keen.'  
   

    'You went missing yesterday,' Ellesar-Soon-to-be-King said kindly and Eomer found himself grinning despite himself. 'I had hoped to confer with you about the coronation. You will be there?'  
    'Of course, I wouldn't miss it for the world.'  
    Aragorn's relief was evident and it was then that Eomer understood. The great found-King was afraid, lonely, and uncertain. He was everything Eomer found himself feeling of late. Taking the older man's arm he guided him outside wondering what would become of them in this new world that had no guide to it. These new positions they had only dimly wondered about.  
    'The captains of the West are arriving in a few days time. I believe they've set sail for Osgilliath. Faramir is arranging everything for their stay.' A weary sigh, and they found a place to linger by pale gold flowers that had remembered how to bloom after years of winter. 'I've a question. Beregond, you know of him?'  
    'Heard from some of the men vague things.'  
    'He, for all intents and purposes, committed an unforgivable act. His intent was good, it was based solely on his loyalty to Faramir. An honorable thing, loyalty and I would hate to punish it. Yet I must do something, the situation cannot remain as it was. I was wondering if you had any advice.'  
    'I, I'm not sure,' and he wasn't. He hoped Aragorn understood, could see it. Could see that he was thinking of a shade of a man who had once been great but had committed treason as well and for no great reason but for greed. Greed and perhaps fear. He had begun to think that fear had been a part of it, perhaps a greater part than the greed. 'The White Wizard would perhaps be a better person to ask than I-'  
    'I did, yesterday, and he said that all these new kings need to learn to make decisions for themselves.' A pause, Aragorn was laughing to himself. 'I think we've managed to annoy him. Interrupting him during his studies-'  
    'I only asked him once for advice,' Eomer replied, grinning. 'I don't know about a certain king of Gondor...I cannot speak for my brother-monarch.'  
    'Fair enough. But what shall I do? Demote him? I believe that mercy is required...'  
    Of course, Eomer was nodding. Of course, of course mercy was required. This was a New Age, a Fourth Age and it should start with life, not death. An age of Man and we, as kings, should show Man at his greatest. His ability for reason, for mercy, for understanding, for forgiveness, for humanity.  
    'He could work for Faramir. Since his loyalty is so clearly tied to the Steward it would make sense that he should continue to work for him. He will be 'demoted' in a sense and yet his loyalty will be rewarded. Of course you should ask your Steward his opinion as well. And maybe ask one of the hobbits.'  
    The older man laughed as they moved back into the hall, 'the hobbits? Why should I do that? Do they know secrets of kingship?'  
    'Oh no, perhaps not that. But they seem to see things we miss. What does Beregond wear under his clothes?'  
    The laughs continued, 'I wouldn't know, why?'  
    'Samwise told me that you know a man's true self if you know what he wears under his clothes.'  
    A nod, an absent back on his back and Aragorn was drifting towards his study that was serving as his base of operations. 'Good advice, I suppose. Brother, what are you doing with your little traitor-turned-hero?'  
    'I'd hardly call him a hero-'  
    'Perhaps not-' drifting still, but his eyes were attentive. Eomer could see his age, his knowledge, his understanding, his gravity. And suddenly he was happy that Eowyn was marrying Faramir, she was too young and too light for Aragorn and he too knowing, too grave for her.  
    'I haven't decided yet, though I've been counselled to mercy.'  
    'Good council, good council.' He paused, face suddenly unreadable. 'Perhaps something to help rebuild what he so utterly destroyed. I think that's what I would do. Have him build instead of ruin, and keep a good watch on him to make sure he doesn't slink off anywhere he's not supposed to.'  
    Eomer nodded, yes-yes, I suppose that is what I should do. I suppose that is what I will do. 'His first task I have at hand.'  
    'And what is that?'  
    'He will prepare his king for burial.'  



	5. Son of Man, Son of Numenor.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First: I'd like to thank those who are reading this and leaving kudos. I greatly appreciate it. It's always nice to know one's stories are read, especially when they're about (at least) one character who isn't particularly popular.  
> So, thank you.
> 
>  
> 
> Gondor! Gondor, between the Mountains and the Sea!  
> West Wind blew there; the light upon the Silver Tree  
> Fell like bright rain in gardens of the Kings of old.
> 
> ..  
> Some old stories. A crowning. The noise of the living.

That night Eomer dreamt of a crown that was heavy and weighed him down. He dreamt of horses dying and men screaming. He dreamt of cold mountain waters and starless, moon less nights. He dreamt of seeing the sun at midnight, the moon at high noon. He dreamt of snakes and thistles and small white flowers that would forever bloom so long as the people of Rohan stood strong. He dreamt of a small dark haired child with watery blue eyes that was too quiet and serious for his age. He dreamt of a white horse and Theodrid and Eowyn and Faramir and Aragorn and Samwise and they were all crawling up a mountain and he wondered, dimly, dimly, why he was dreaming Grima's dreams.

    Searching through the palace he found Grima in the healing rooms slowly un-bandaging one of his arms. The flesh was pale-pale-moonlight-snake-belly white, a harsh pale pink scar ran up and disappeared over the shoulder.  
    'Who did that?' He made sure his voice was soft, his meaning kind.  
    'I don't remember,' Grima lied and rolled down his sleeve.  
    'How is the rest of you?'  
    'Alive, mending, muddling along. And how do you fare?' They moved like shadows from the room to the hall and from the hall to the gardens. There was sun and Eomer moved to the edge, to see the city sprawling beneath them. He thought of his uncle-king. And his sister, of Grima's eyes that didn't seem to notice her any more.  
    'Well enough. The other day, you said 'Snakes- that old tale', what did you mean?'  
    'You haven't heard it?' He seemed mildly shocked and Eomer was pleased that he could manage to force some emotion other than a barren impartiality from the man. 'I was sure Gamling or Theodrid or Hama or someone would have told you it. The old fable that my mother's people were snakes and my father's were demons who could take human shape and they created only monsters. That I'm cold because I've got northern blood and northern blood is cold blood.'  
    'I hadn't heard it, no. Though I suppose I never asked for tales,' he was thinking of a small slim book, blue elvish silk. 'Did you, ever?'  
    A delicate tilt of his head and Grima seemed to shift, seemed to recoil into himself without moving. 'When I was a child, I think I might have.'  
    'Which stories did you hear?'  
    'Ones of elves, dwarves, the Old Days. Numenor, Huron – the tales we all know. You are still having bad dreams, I think?'  
    'I've a job for you. Eowyn and I will be leaving for Rohan after the coronation –'  
    'Apparently taking some tea before bed helps, with honey –'  
    'I want you to prepare my uncle, your king's body for burial –'  
    'Peppermint, obliviscor-fides, hincignis –'  
    'Wash it again, perfume it, dress it –'  
    'Drink some before sleep and you shouldn't have such dreams.'  
    'You have a week, see to it well, and I will think about your position further.'

    'A man once described the world of Middle Earth as a wasteland. He said – Son of Man, Son of Numenor, you don't see anything but ruins. There are no plants blooming under your feet. There is no water in these rocks. No shade under these trees.  
But, Son of Man, Son of Numenor, you have words and with these words you will shore yourselves against this ruin, against this death, this wasteland. And he said that one day there will be water and it will be cool and clear and there will be a king again and he will come from the most unlikely of places. Look for a fisherman for you will have a fisher-king.'  
    'Grima.'  
    'I was -'  
    'What are you going on about?'  
    'Another history of man. Another legend. One that people don't tell because it was not first sung by the elves but by men. Men from the north. Our forefathers.'  
    'It's time for new stories.'  
    'You sound tired.'  
    'I am. Please, continue.'  
    And he did. Slowly, with soft words, eyes shadowed and Eomer wondered what sort of fisher-king he would make.

    It was on a sunny day, a beautiful cloudless day, that Aragorn became Ellesar and Eomer fully realised the gravity of what was happening. His brother-king was King. And he soon would be King as well. A forced smile to the crowd but his bones were chilled, his blood was iced, he was thinking of a shadowed figure behind him saying - You are wearing what is supposed to be mine. You are sitting where I am supposed to be sitting. You are living the life I should have lived -  
    'A blessed day, isn't it sir?'  
    His thoughts were broken and he looked down to find Samwise smiling, Mr. Frodo next to him also smiling. Though the smile didn't reach his eyes. But he was trying. We are all trying, trying to put things together again.  
    'It is, for Gondor and Middle Earth both.'  
    'Aye, that's what I said.' They moved through the hall, admiring the grace and beauty that Minas Tirith had become. The loneliness of Denethor was erased, his madness and desperate nature. Faramir was golden and a hobbit named Pippin had said it was a shame his brother wasn't here to see that it had all turned out well. And that was all he ever heard of Boromir – a shame he wasn't here. Lost so young. Whispers in the galleries.  
    'When are you returning to Rohan?' The ringbearer's voice was softer than he remembered. Though he had little chance to hear it.  
    'In a few days time. I must bury my uncle, help my people. Repair our land. There is much to do.'  
    They were nodding along and it seemed to Eomer that they understood, and looking more closely at tired faces and shoulders held up proud through force alone, he reasoned that they just might understand. 'When are you returning to your land?'  
    'The Shire,' Samwise almost glowed. 'I'm not sure. Aragorn has offered to let us remain here as long as we would like. I sometimes think,' he paused, trailed off. Looked around to see the the dwarf and the elf laughing, to see Aragorn looking as close to content as he had ever seen him, to see Gandalf yet again telling Merry and Pippin off, to see what was left of the Fellowship.  
    'What is it, Sam?' Frodo prompted, smiling still though this one was more genuine.  
    'I sometimes think we don't want the Fellowship to end. I sometimes think we want it to go on, that's why we're here, because we're all meant to be together. My old Gaffer once said that people come into your life for a reason. I didn't really understand him until now.'

    He found Grima skulking in the growing shadows of the evening. He was in the garden, the abandoned parts with weeds and brambles and Eomer wondered when his life had become a story.  
    'I didn't see you at the dinner,' he said. The older man shrugged and pulled himself back against a wall. Bits of earth crumbled off, spotting the grey-blue of his tunic with brown. 'You should have come.'  
    'I have no place there. I'm not -' He stopped, shrugged again. Eomer could see him pulling himself back together, tugging on the strings that held his face in that implacable expression. 'I was thinking of a shepherd I met, once.'  
    'What did he tell you?'  
    'I'm not sure. But at the time it seemed good advice. He asked me if I knew what the sound of a tree dying was.'  
    'And did you?'  
    'When he asked I was wondering if everyone here had died yet. I'm not sure I answered. He said it was, it was when you call their names and they don't answer. It's when you sing to them and they don't sing back. It's silence.'  
    And Eomer didn't answer so there was silence and and the sound of leaves rustling. Of trees moving.  
    'I had gotten used to the silence of living, I think that's what I had called it. And now I'm remembering that most living things make noise.'  
    'If you want noise just go back in the hall, you'll see life there.' The princeling was standing now, wondering why Grima was telling him this, deciding it wasn't important, and feeling the need to be inside. To be where the glow of fire and candles kept everyone merry, where ale was pouring freely, where he didn't have to think too much about tomorrow. 'Come inside. It's cold out here.'  
    'I'm a worm, Eomer son of Eomund. I'm supposed to like the cold.'  
    Eomer son of Eomund left without a word and returned without a word. Deposited a blanket near the older man and retreated back to the light of the hall, humming a song he didn't know the words to.

    'You are leaving,' Aragorn-King said with a voice that might have been accusing. If playfully. Eomer nodded, smiled, took the other man's offered hug farewell.  
    'I will return to collect my uncle's body for the funeral. And to say farewell to my sister.'  
    They glanced over to the shy couple, attempting to hide in the corners of the hall. Aragorn laughed, smiled and the room seemed brighter for it. I think, he said, this isn't the worst way to begin a Fourth Age.


	6. Flowing Years From the Sea Returning.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Discussions of ents, dreams, and happenings in the north. New stories are ordered to be written and Grima wants to make dirt.

  


     'Have you ever seen an ent-wife?' Eomer asked it when he heard that Grima had gone through Fangorn. Had stumbled through with hands trembling and body barely working.  
     'They disappeared an age ago,' he answered. There was sun above them, warm summer sun. The clouds of Mordor had finally cleared and it was the first time the young King had seen smiles on the faces of his people. Grima watched him with veiled eyes. He was on his knees in dirt, gardening. Eomer had said it would be an appropriate job. Make things grow now, since you have spent much of your life making them die.  
     'Legend says that the ents would sing for them. Sing them poems.'  
     'Poems that are sung are commonly called songs, Eomer-king.'  
     Amusement was there, briefly. Eomer laughed and said that he was glad to see that the world was mending. Grima nodded but did not believe him.

     There was a thick volume put before him one evening at dinner. Eomer nodded to it and said that the ring-bearer's gardener sent it to him, as a gift. It was bound in thick shire leather, stitched together with a rough hand. An old book with blank pages in the back. A careful note in the common tongue – Blank pages for you to add in new things. I should think that plants are different between Rohan and the Shire.  
     'I thought you might like it,' Eomer explained. 'I had expressed to Samwise my uncertainty at your ability to garden. He said he would write to the shire and have this book sent along, it was a guide his father had kept. He said he added in more, things that were passed down just by experience.'  
     'How kind,' he was dubious. Fingered the pages, ignored the eyes of the court on him. 'I send my thanks.' Finally said because something had to be said. Eomer seemed pleased enough and nodded his good-evening before retreating back into the crowd.

     Dirt. A nameless hobbit writes. Grims thinks it might this Samwise, but he can't be sure. Dirt. Dirt is the beginning and the end. Without it little would grow. We come from dirt and we very soon return to dirt. But a blink of an eye in the lives of some creatures on this earth. Make good dirt and you will grow good plants. Don't and they will be stunted, they will whither, and perhaps die.  
     'My Old Gaffer -' Grima thought that the writing was too personal but didn't linger on the thought. 'My Old Gaffer always swore by a refuse heap. Compost, as some call it in Bree. All the left overs from the table and every day work, except meat, goes into the pile and it decomposes taking what was good of the food into the dirt with it.' And what was bad, Grima didn't think. There was a reference to his Old Gaffer's writings on the subject, earlier up in the book. Reading it Grima decided that while he didn't like the way Hobbits wrote, their ideas weren't half bad.

     When he dreams now it isn't of a mountain with fire and hard rock. It isn't of an unnamed, unknowable task. It isn't of a certain knowledge of failure.  
     Now he dreams of trees holding him down, of dirt covering his body. He dreams of beetles making nests in his hair, worms crawling through his forever pale flesh, wasps and flies laying larva in his mouth. He dreams of flowers growing on top of him, their roots sucking life from the marrow of his bones. He dreams of cities covering him, new worlds forming above him, strange, distant and foreign.  
     When he woke it was early morning, there was a thin grey light beginning to cover the world. He pushed himself out of bed and washed his face, could still taste dirt in his mouth, feel creatures moving through his body.  
     Eomer was up early that morning as well. He was standing outside Medulseld watching his people slowly wake. There was movement below him, a dark shadow slinking past, attempting not to be seen. There was a thought – let the man pass without comment. Let him have some rest from the scrutiny of the world. But the thought was just that – a thought. Eomer moved forward, down steps, and said, 'You rise early Master Grima.'  
     'As well as yourself, my lord.' The eyes of the older man were ahead. Not looking at his king. Not looking towards the Golden Hall. Just ahead. Facing due north with a twist to the west.  
     'I cannot afford to be idle. And wouldn't be anyhow, even if I could.'  
     'Wise, my lord.'  
     'You seem haggard today, son of Galmod.'  
     'Dreams, son of Eomund. Just dreams.'  
     The young lord seemed interested, he waited, wanting to hear more, not wanting to ask. Grima smiled, just a fraction, before his face conformed to the impassive expression he usually wore.  
     'I dreamt of death, I think.'  
     'Dark dreams.'  
     'Not truly, so. Sometimes there must death for there to be life.' He turned to Eomer and gave a sneering smile. The king resisted the urge to hit him, to bite back a reply, to react in any way but the calm demeanour required of a King. He knows Grima can see the struggle and it makes it even worse. 'See, Eomer son of Eomund, I take the dead plants and vegetables and let them decompose till they become dirt themselves. But that dirt is richer than what is already on the ground and helps ensure the health and life of new plants. The death of one is necessary for the life of another.'  
     He paused. He was thinking of something, of someone, his eyes were finally on the Golden Hall. Eomer could see him forming the thoughts – just as a king's death is necessary for a new king's life.  
     Eomer bid him good day and Grima nodded. A new day. Which means yesterday is dead. And the night was the healing of time. And tomorrow will slaughter today in the brilliance of a sunset. Red will mar the sky. Black will consume the earth.  
     Eomer bid him good day and did his best not to think of such things.

 

     Sets of eyes were on him as he read the missive. The boy who brought it sat at the table picking at chicken, sopping up sauce with bread, and looking underfed. And tired. And young. Too young to be running messages so far across the Mark.  
Eowyn had marvelled at the youth of the new riders. 'Barely breeched,' she had said and had sounded sad. Where are my old men? Eomer had replied. My faithful riders? They're dead.  
     'Are you certain of this?'  
     The lad nodded. Took a sip of ale and couldn't raise his eyes from the table.  
     'It says your village believes that the wild men of the north are beginning to become organised. With form and purpose.'  
     'They aren't just raids anymore, sire.' Whispered but with conviction. The lad was fumbling with his jerkin, a scrawled map appeared. 'They're too well planned. Only three have happened thus far but m'lord father thinks that there is a pattern.'  
Gamling took the map and compared it to the ones spread on the table. His face was clouded, concerned, then a flash and he was angry.  
     'Sire, they're attacking grain transports.'  
     'Yes,' Eomer felt tired, he rubbed his eyes.  
     'With Saruman gone there is a new void to fill, new land open in the north.'  
     'Yes, and we don't have the men to prevent it and to defend our people at the same time'  
     There was silence. A servant refilled wine glasses then slipped to the side of the room, to hide in the shadows.  
     'I'm leaving for Gondor at the end of the week. Amongst other things I will be renewing our old treaty; I can ask my brother-king for aid. In the meanwhile I think we should send some men up north with Firken, here. Gamling, can you arrange it after this session?'  
     'Immediately, sire.' Gamling replied and a few councillors nodded their heads in agreement. Papers and maps were collected, filed, placed to the side. Ledgers appeared after them, open, and a tight, careful script stared up at Eomer who swore his stomach lurched.  
     'We need to audit them,' the older man said with a tired sigh. 'Should we go get him –'  
     'Excuse me, sire.'  
     Gamling stopped, scowled down the table to the man who had spoken. 'Godfrey, this isn't – '  
     'No,' Eomer waved him quiet. 'Let him speak.'  
     'Sire,' a nimble man stood, bowed. 'I have reservations about our relying on Gondor for aid. While I understand and appreciate your friendship with Gondor's noble King, I worry about how it would appear to our people and the wild men as well. Strong evidence that we cannot defend ourselves against something so simple, it leaves us vulnerable.'  
     'Of all the -'  
     Eomer waved to Gamling again and nodded slowly. His fingers were steepled, elbows resting on the table, eyebrows furrowed. 'You make a valid point, Godfrey son of Haleth. And if they were just simple raids I wouldn't seek Gondor's aid. But if Firken and his father are correct then we have something potentially bigger happening. I cannot risk not having enough men to defend Rohan.' A pause. The council was frozen, looking at papers, the table, at neither of the men speaking. 'This isn't the first report I've heard. Some of the lands to the north have been experiencing similar threats from the wild men. They are attempting something.'  
     'Sire -'  
     'We can discuss your concerns after we adjourn. For the moment we need to move on.'  
Godfrey opened his mouth to reply before deciding against it and sitting down giving a grudging bow to Eomer. A few of the men around Godfrey bowed their heads and murmured between them before coming to some sort of agreement.  
     'The ledgers,' Gamling said.  
     'Right,' the new King muttered. 'The ledgers.'

 

     The Rohirrim speak of the weather in the extreme. Grima remembered this as he stood between Elderberries and Ballistarius. It was early summer and sweltering. Not even the bees were out. Men were sipping slow drams of fruit syrup mixed with something quite a bit stronger. Women were sitting and watching the children listlessly play.  
     Between the Elderberries and Ballistarius was a view of the valley below, cutting into the distance hills that become mountains. Reluctant farmers dotted the brown land, pushing even more reluctant horses. The harvest may survive the summer. It may not. He knew that Eomer-king was not thinking about the option of crop failure. 'There are too many dead already,' the young king had said to Gamling. 'Eru wouldn't be that cruel.'  
     Grima was tempted to go to the king and say – oh, my dear son of Eomund, that requires Eru actually caring. And He doesn't.  
Above the valley hovered the beginning of thunderheads, coming in over the mountains from the sea. The air was heavy, tense, tasted like dust and dew simultaneously. If it breaks over Edoras it would be the first storm of the Fourth Age. It would bring new life and renew old. But Grima wasn't thinking about that. He was thinking of heat and the yellowing flowers of the Floruin, and the lack of bees and birds. He was thinking of cold dark dead walls of Orthanc. The warm softness of Medulseld. He was thinking of extremes. He was thinking – this has got to be the hottest Edoras has ever been and ever will be.

     'You want the rubbish from our meals excepting the meat?' Eomer couldn't decide whether he ought to laugh or no. Grima was looking calm and closed in. A look that had become more pronounced the longer he stayed in Edoras. There were walls miles thick around him and he was very much waiting for something, what that something was Eomer wasn't sure. A second went by. The younger man decided not to laugh. 'Of course you can. What for?'  
     'I'm making dirt.' Stated as if it should have been obvious. Here Eomer did laugh, if only a little. Grima looked mildly surprised. Some of the tension eases but he is still standing rigid, firm, ready to fight someone who wasn't fighting him. Eomer didn't understand why.

     He took it to Gamling that evening over a pint. The Hall was finally empty and it was just the two of them in the corner, like old times. Eomer frowned and tried to reason himself out of his mood.  
     'He doesn't like asking for things. Least of all from you,' Gamling explained. They were two pints in and feeling a little better for it. 'His entire purpose was the destruction of your family and Rohan, was it not? Tough then, being shown mercy by the very people you would have watched die. Mercy and kindness are often more cruel than revenge and maltreatment. Grima's sort don't understand mercy and so don't trust it when it is given to them, or they feel that they are being looked down upon. As if they weren't even worth the effort to execute.'  
     'As if they don't matter.'  
     'Aye, sire. And Grima is a man who very much wants to matter. Least ways, that's how I see it.'

 

     Eomer, in between meetings and requirements and the duties of kingship, had taken to wondering about his gardener. He asked his sister if he had done the right thing and Eowyn had shrugged and said only time will tell. 'A wise man said the same.'  
     'What are you worried of?' The younger woman asked. 'He has been quiet these past weeks.'  
     'Indeed.'  
     He went silent and Eowyn waited to hear more. To hear of dreams or worries or ill omens and portents. Instead there was simply silence. Eomer looked distant, frowned, concentrating on something and she began wondering where her brother had gone and who was this man in his place who looked ten years older and exhausted.  
     'Will he be returning with us to Gondor to bring Uncle home?'  
     Eomer started, looked up. 'I don't know.'  
     'It was his task to bury his king.'  
     'No,' said too sharply. Eomer closed his eyes and adjusted his voice. 'It was his job to prepare his king for burial. A task he completed before we left.'  
     'Eomer -'  
     'It's that he never seems to mind.'  
     'You need to rest.'  
     'Men insult him and he says nothing.'  
     'Please, brother king, do not push yourself like this.'  
     'It's as if he has given up. Or become so used to it that it means nothing.'  
     'You will be your own death if you keep pushing yourself.'  
     'I suppose I should ask him.'  
     'Brother-mine, please.'

 

     Outside, in the dry heat of Rohan, Grima was sitting under the eaves of Medulseld wondering about the elves. He had heard stories of them, of course. The famous, ill fated, Last Alliance. The elven-king in his forest lair. There were stories of dragons and dwarves and even, if you listened hard enough, of hobbits. Then there was the reforging of the sword of Isildur. The wisdom and advise they apparently gave. The shelter they would offer.  
     'Do you think they ever forget?' It was a question he asked aloud but there was no one there to hear. 'Do you ever think they don't want to remember all the thousands of years of their lives?'

     'I've been wondering.' Eomer began after having found Grima. The sun was setting and the sky was painted pink and purple and dying red.  
     'Oh dear, a dangerous thing.' Stated dryly, the older man's face was a mask. 'What were you wondering, dear king?'  
     'Why the sneers and insults of the men never seem to unsettle you.'  
     The stooped figure of Grima straightened, dirty fingers were wiped into his tunic. The distaste was evident. Eomer remembered, as he watched the failed attempts to clean once pale hands, that Grima disliked dirt. And grime. And anything that wasn't clean or the semblance of clean.  
     'Oh?'  
     'Why don't they? Thick skin?'  
     A shrug. Eomer soon began to believe that he wasn't going to receive an answer when Grima's face changed briefly. A flicker of something. A sure sign of a reply, the king had learned.  
     'Are you ever offended by the truth, Eomer-King?'  
     'Rarely.'  
     Grima inclined his head. There, there, there you have it. 'I am not the stuff of heroes. I am not an honourable man. You call me a snake. My father used to call me a spider. Saruman a worm. I'm not offended because I am, and have been, all of these things. The truth is my shield, it would be foolish to be offended by it.'  
     'It wasn't a snake who saved me at Pellenor.'  
     Something in Grima's eyes changed; Eomer knew another wall was being repaired and he promised himself never to mention the slaughter-field again.  
     'I don't know who he was.' It was said slowly, deliberately. Dictated, almost. 'But whoever he was, he wasn't Grima Wormtongue.'

 

     It was decided, during a council meeting a day before Eomer was to leave for Gondor, that a record would be made of the War of the Ring.  
      'The ring bearer is writing his account.' Eomer had explained. 'But we have our own stories, our own losses and experiences and so I think it would be best if we recorded our stories.'  
     The council had been silent. Godfrey finally leaned forward, 'Why? If I may be so bold as to ask. We are not men of words or tales. We are men of action. Why should we concern ourselves with writing down stories.'  
     Eomer steepled his fingers and motioned for Gamling to be still. 'Because,' he began slowly. 'Because we once forgot and we almost were destroyed because we forgot. This is so no man will ever forget again. Do I have any volunteers?' He smiled as his councillors took to staring at the table or shuffling papers, coughing discreetly. 'Godfrey?'  
     'Sire, as honoured as I am, I hardly think...' He trailed off, uncertain how to phrase the refusal.  
     'Hamat?'  
     'Oh,' a coughing fit as the old man banged at his chest. 'Sire, I am not worthy to write such a story. I wouldn't be able to render the men and actions as they were...' He was stopped by another cough.  
     'Finglen?'  
     'Sire,' Gamling said suddenly, 'I'll write it.' The older man hardly seemed certain of what he was saying. Eomer smiled gratefully and patted him on the back.  
     'Hardly worse than what we've already faced.'  
     'I will do it gladly sire, but to be honest, I'd rather face a pack of wargs.'  
     The council laughed and the tension was released. Eomer sighed and closed his eyes, feeling himself relax for the first time since he had returned home.

     Grima was nursing a pint of ale and the remains of his dinner when Gamling seated himself across from the other man. The table was empty and Gamling could fee the curious eyes of the court on him.  
     'I need your help,' the bigger man spat gruffly. 'My lord-king has asked for an account of the War of the Ring for the records of Rohan. He says things must be written now, before they're lost. He says we forgot the last time and we were almost lost because of it. No one was much keen on it, so I took it upon myself, and truly the idea isn't too bad.' He paused, aware of his rambling, of the blank stare being given to him by cold watery eyes, of the increasingly odd looks from the court. 'I'm not a man of words. Few here are.'  
     Another pause. Grima blinked, nodded slowly. 'What do you want, exactly?' And what do I get, he didn't ask but wanted to.  
     'Could you write it? Or draft it? I tried this afternoon.' Here he threw down ten pages of scribbles and arrows and scratched out sentences.  
     'No.' Said with a dead voice. Gamling frowned, not expecting a refusal.  
     'I'm sorry?'  
     'You want a ballad of the war. I don't remember anything fit for a ballad.'  
     'What do you remember?'  
     Grima pushed his food about with a piece of bread. He was composing his answer and despite his dislike, Gamling forced himself to admire the effort.  
     'Cowardice. Fear. Good men behaving dishonourably. Blood. Sweat. Shit. Full men sobbing for their mothers as they held their stomachs in. They don't speak of these things in ballads.'  
     'My first battle I wet myself,' Gamling said after a moment, surprised at himself for saying as much. But he remembered Hama's complaint, may he rest well, that there was something about Grima Wormtongue that made one want to talk. To speak and tell yet pull away in disgust simultaneously. 'I was two and twenty, a full man with a beard, and I wet myself.'  
     Grima nodded, nibbled on some bread. 'So did I.'  
     'What was your first?'  
     'Pellenor. Sans the beard, obviously.'  
     A discreet pause before Gamling began laughing. 'You're writing it and fuck ballads. Put in that you pissed yourself from fright. That we all did, kings included.'  
     'If I must.' It was said grudgingly but Gamling swore he saw a hint of amusement in those cold snake eyes.

 

     'There seemed fewer papers when my uncle-king was on the throne,' Eomer said as he watched Grima trim back a vine that was attempting to claim the south wall of the royal gardens.  
     'Oh?'  
     'Stop playing. What did you do with all of them?'  
     'Came with me,' Grima turned, dropped a few leaves into the pile of plant refuse. 'They should still be in Orthanc unless Saruman took them with him. Shouldn't think why he would. They're fairly useless unless you're running Rohan.'  
     'Right, you can go get them, then. I want them by the time I return from Gondor.'  
     The older man scowled, was about to protest when Eomer shook his head. No, no, the worm would crawl back to the living-dead stone of Isengard and get his papers. Did he understand? Yes, yes he did. He reluctantly did.

     Gamling reminded him of his promise to write the history as he packed his horse. 'Include everything,' he said with meaning. Grima scowled and said he would. He had a good memory. When he wanted one.  
     'Here are some papers, notes from the Ride.' He handed Grima a sachet of paper which was quickly tucked away.  
     'And where are you going? To Gondor with our king?'  
     'No, north, with the lad Firken and a company of men.'  
     Grima glanced over with interest and Gamling laughed, said – ah, for once I know something before the worm. A novel situation, I like it, we'll keep it like this shall we?  
     'What's happening in the north?'  
     'Wouldn't you like to know.' Smiled. Grima could feel hackles rising but forced them back down. He would be sweet and demure and keep eyes on the ground. He had heard the Lady Eowyn say to her brother in Gondor – remind him that he's not worth the dirt you walk on.  
     'How much about Theoden, uncle of Eomer-king, should I include in this little history I am to write? I think a solid portion of it should be his weakness and decent into madness, don't you? Oh, and perhaps how his grandfather was cruel Fengel, a king mad with greed and the lust for money. I hear tell he was worse than myself.' Gamling's face began changing. Grima smiled and thought – arrange your face, Gamling oft' called the Old 'Or, perhaps how Rohan almost fell, was weaker than the northern wild men? How a simple half breed worm managed to almost destroy your people. How would the pride of the king like that? Or should I make it plain that I wrote it instead of his faithful servant who promised that it would be his words?'  
     'What do you want?'  
     Grima admitted to himself that he admired Gamling's ability to draw himself up, his ability to arrange his anger and his pride and his honor into one simple twist of his shoulders, tilt of his head.  
     'What's happening in the north?'  
     'The wild men are uniting. At the moment it's simple raids on grain supplies and merchants. But our king fears, and rightly so, that it may grow into something more substantial.'  
     'All voids need to be filled. Fact of nature.'  
     'He's just a wild man. I'm confident we will be able to put him down before Eomer returns.'  
     Grima smiled again. It was more a sneer and he seemed to say – and I was just a half breed no body. Seemingly simple to deal with, as well.  
     'Don't underestimate him. My advice to you and Eomer.'  
     'Since when did your advise do us anything but harm?'  
     Outside thunderheads slowly began forming over the mountains. Grima tightened straps on his saddle with his back to Gamling. Turning around he shrugged, 'take it or leave it. It was freely offered.'

 


	7. Through Rohan over fen and field emptywhere the long grass grows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isengard. Rebels. Attempts at writing. A realisation.

    Isengard was still. Dead still. More than dead still. The orcs, the ones that had survived, had long since left. Saruman had headed north according to scattered reports that were routinely brought to Edoras. The ents had destroyed the walls and the mills and the works. The advances in technology that would have so greatly helped man lay in heaps of splintered wood and shards of stone. In the centre of it all stood Orthanc. Silent and still. Dead still. More than dead still with its dead black stone, its dead black hewn rock.      
    Inside it was as cold as he remembered and he pulled his cloak about him tighter, moved faster, past doors and rooms and halls. The floor of Saruman's study was littered with old books and manuscripts. Half of him wanted to stay, to feel the slip of paper between his fingers once again, read old words just one last time, feel them dance on his tongue, under his skin. The other half wanted to move on, to run from the room and the tower and the land. Run and not stop, over mountains, through valleys to the sea and then into the sea. Let the cold grip of the ocean take him. Let his body be unwanted food for the fish. Torn between the two he stood frozen. Eyes glued to the desk and the papers and their spiderweb words inked across yellowed pages.  
    He moved forward. Wretched a foot up, then another, forced his legs to work. He knew the third drawer down on the left held blank pages and they were still there when he opened it. His bag was quickly filled with all it could fit. Then the ink and the quills. Even Saruman's favourite was still in its holder. Grima wondered why it had been left when lesser ones had been taken. It had silver etched up the side, gold thread intwined with the tips of the barbs still left on. His hand hovered by it before moving on. His stomach was churning, he knew he would probably be sick if he took it. 

    Once, an age ago, there had been learned men who had studied in the darkness of Orthanc. They had been the great minds of Gondor when Gondor had still been great. They would walk, careful dusty steps, up to the pinnacle to stare at ageless stars and marvel at their beauty, their terrific beauty and come to understand how things like war and death and blood exist. Because you cannot have one terrific beauty without one terrific horror. And even in the horror there is beauty.  
    But now Gondor is great again. And so he climbed to the top of Orthanc, white blank pages in hand, and sat in the middle and stared up at ageless, nameless stars. Once, an age ago, they had all born names and stories. Now they were without identity, staring down at him without passion, without love or hate. He found that he liked the ambiguity, the lack of emotions. Eomer was all _feeling_ , was all _passion,_ was all _spirit,_ was everything he wasn't. It was too much at times. Sitting up he found papers and ink and an old wooden pen with carved tip. Dipping it slowly into the ink he reminded himself what is was to create. For history is what we make it, he thought. I am making a new Rohan out of old stories. I am making a new Age. I am making and not destroying and this is too foreign for me.   
    He stared over the edge and wondered what it would be like to fall. He contemplated it briefly before the lurching fear, ever present in the depth of his stomach, propelled him backwards to the empty papers and too full inkwell.  
    Then pen was picked up again, held lovingly, and words were finally forced onto yielding paper. Despite his reputation the only rape he had ever committed was of truth and history.

        _The Third Age._  
           _Reign of Theoden, or Ednew Lord of the Mark, or Tûrac as we call him, son of Thengel, King of Rohan._

  
    'I am not one to believe that a nation's history should be composed of half heard and remembered fables. I am firmly of the opinion that the art of ruling should be rooted in fact and tried and true methods. Stories that the elves can only half remember from their half remembered homeland are fancies meant for children and old men. This is not a story. This is fact.  
    This war that has just been fought has been called the War of the Ring, and really it is the Second War of the Ring. Or, to be more precise, it is a continuation of the War of the Last Allience, also called the First War of the Ring. Regardless, the wars had their genesis in the Second Age. It was during this time that Annatar, gift giver, better known as the Dark Lord, or, Sauron, or, Hand of Morgoth, or, the Sorcerer, forged the Rings of Power. Three he gifted to the Elf lords for of the elves only three were great. Seven were gifted to the Dwarf lords and somehow the Elves bore it. Nine, fatefully, were gifted to the kings of Men. Nine and the decedents of great Numenor fell into ignominy. We have yet to recover.  
    Somehow Sauron, the admirable, the gift giver, deceiver, sorcerer, forgot a strange race of creatures in the north. Or, perhaps, they did not exist during the Second Age. Somehow I cannot believe that. These strange creatures are of curious habit, dress, and appearance. They are small, children within the eyes of men, and normally keep to themselves. Perhaps that is why they were overlooked, no one thought to look down. Or north. Or at anyone that did not qualify as Noble by the Old ways. Certainly these creatures, Hobbits they call themselves, Halflings as we men call them, are not the stuff of Hurion, or Turin, or Gil-Galad, or any of the other great Heroes of Legend. They do not present themselves well in the glory of battle with armour shining with the blood of the defeated. No. But, regardless, they are far more noble and capable than even the best of the kings of Men. We will come back to them.  
    In order to understand this history one must know and understand the men and creatures involved.  
     We begin with the evil, though it has been wisely and naively said that no man is ever born truly evil. Evidently Gandalf does not know certain men very well. Or has chosen to believe the best. Some, I know, are born to do ill. So, the first we will hear of is Morgoth. If we do not hear of Morgoth we cannot understand Sauron and _that_ is necessary to understand this Second War of the Ring.   
    Once, many ages ago, there was nothing. But nothing is insupportable since the more natural state of affaires is something. So out of nothing came something. And there was music. Beautiful music, ageless, shapeless, music that we cannot begin to imagine. And because there was harmony there must also be discord. For every action there must be its opposite, its equal reaction.  
    Music bore discord the author of which was Morgoth.' 

    He stopped and lingered on the name, Morgoth, drawing it out long and soft in his mind. He wanted to write more. Wanted to remind Eomer of what he had said all those weeks ago. Looking up he could see the path the orcs had taken to Helms Deep. It was a trench in the countryside, a marring scar that reminded all and sundry that looked upon it. It reminded him of watching the orcs depart, hearing the call to arms, their boots on the tough land. It reminded him that he had cried though hadn't been aware of it till later. When he reached up and found wet cheeks. His then-master had asked – Why are you crying? And he had wanted to answer – because I just witnessed the death of someone I truly do not want dead. Even if I spend most hours of the day lying to myself.  
    He closed his eyes. Breathed out. Thought about it for a moment. Reminded himself that the king, the now-king, had lived and muttered 'well, this is inconvenient'.   
    His quill was dipped in ink, he had to write more, if only to distract himself from the present. 

    'Morgoth, who was also called Melkor, who was also called Bauglir, or, simply, The Enemy. He was of the race of Ainur and made discord. Originally he was born Melkor but once he fell he became Morgoth meaning the Black Enemy. He became his name, gave power to it, for there is much power in a name.  
    The Black Enemy then corrupted Mairon, the Admirable, who became the Dark Lord Sauron. Who is merely Dark since he was not the original evil and indeed not truly Black in the way Morgoth was.' 

    He stopped again. Unsure of where to go, how to link it to the Ring. Instead he let it fall, dropping the paper to the wind and watching it drift over the edge and plummet. 

  
    He slept on cold stone in the shadows of Saruman's old char. The stone throne that was all iron and rock and black frost. He slept in the shadow of it and dreamt of darkness. He dreamt of the mountain of fire, the lava eating his fingers, scaring, consuming his face. He dreamt of a small moth tangling itself in his hair and suffocating. A high scream filled his ears as the creature at last stopped moving.  
    Then he dreamt of a horse and thought of Eomer. The horse was white and there was a wizard and two kings and a tree and a flower. Eomer was asking, in the dream, when was the last time Saruman bore you? What was your promised price? Then it was Gandalf asking the same questions. Then no one and he was alone.  
    The screaming of the moth was still present.  
    Then he woke. His cheeks were wet and his throat sore. He was alone and around him were shadows. 

    Under Orthanc there was a maze of endless rooms. One then another then another and on down till there was nothing or you died of starvation. He had stayed in the first one on the left on the nights when he had been lucky enough to be forgotten by all and sundry in Orthanc. Now he stood at the top of the stairs. Stared down into the darkness and wondered if he was alone. He thought he was alone. Logically understood he was alone. But something was tugging at the back of his mind and he had convinced himself that there were creatures hiding in the darkness. It was inky and thick and full of unseen all seeing eyes. He could feel them on his body. Could feel them even if they weren't there.  
    His room was much as he left it. Slightly dusty, slightly damp, very cold, and very empty. A straw mat on the floor, flea filled and rat eaten, had been his bed. Under it was a loose stone his fingers stubbed themselves on as he grasped for purchase. When he finally pulled it up he could smell the old paper before he could see it and he made sure to tell his heart to stop hammering. There was no need for panic. He wasn't sure why his body was doing it.  
    He was alone, after all. He had no reason to be frightened. He was alone, in the dark, in Orthanc, with an old lamp and no weapon. But he was alone. With the ledgers and his memories and Eomer's filled yet empty threats.  
  
    Walking to his horse the next morning he glanced back to the tower. One last forbidden look and he sort of expected to be turned into stone. A pillar of a crumbling salt or sand that wouldn't survive the next storm. Instead he only blinked away water in his eyes from keeping them open too long, made an unreadable face, and turned to go. As he left he swore he saw a man in white watching him with cold eyes, standing at the top of the tower. The man had gaunt features, a mean and hungry look, and would have killed him had he half the chance.  
    There are ghosts, he thought. Of things I'd rather forget. 

  
    He could have ridden straight back to Edoras, deposited the heavy bags of yellowing ledgers and papers on Eomer's desk, and have done with it. He then could have said – Sire, I have been instructed to write a history of the Second War and I cannot bring my self to do it. Here is my quill, new from this spring, stripped of barbs. Here is my pen knife. Here is my parchment, vellum, only the best. It's thin and creamy white and beautiful. Write your own history for I'll have none of it. And I'll have none of you.  
    But then he remembered that Eomer was with his winter-cold sister in Gondor and he would be saying the speech to air and dust. The ledgers would lie alone on the desk for another few weeks yet. Edoras was empty. The king in the south, Gamling in the north, and the people in the fields with the harvest. And he. He alone near Fangorn trying to forget the nights he had spent stumbling through it.  
    It had only been a six months. Maybe a little more. Maybe a little less. He didn't mark the passage of time as he once did. But. Only six months. It was hot on the Mark but the forest was still cold. He could feel the breath and hear it whisper – you were once here, you were once blind, you were once stumbling along carrying all the hurts, both self inflicted, earned, and imagined. You were once here and you were delivered.  
    He nudged Eorl north, feeling the warm wind and sun He still wore black and grey and dark blue. Eomer had said to him one day, you look like a walking bruise. Gamling had overheard and said that it was appropriate, wasn't it? He could see Edoras to the south, see the sure trail of the riders of the Mark as they made their way north to see what they could do about an upstart would-be lordling. Saruman had said to the wildmen, The Horse Lords have taken your land, made you scratch a living off rocks. He had looked into it and Saruman had been right.  
    It disgusted him so he stopped thinking about all the times Saruman had been right.  
    He followed the trail of the riders till the sun set. Standing atop a hill he could see feint lights of a village in the distance. He couldn't tell if they were having a large bonfire to celebrate the harvest or if the village was on fire. He found he didn't care, shrugged and settled down for the night; hiding by outcropping rocks and hoping that all the rogue orcs had been taken care of when the riders had gone through the day before. 

  
    The hall was mostly empty when he walked in a few days later. The only ones there were servants who were flittering in and out, mindful of his dubious position. They weren't sure if he was one of them, one of the lords, a traitor, a foreigner, someone to not mind, someone to avoid. So they steered a careful middle ground that only servants could steer – that of polite distance coupled with mild, but not offensive, distrust. He didn't mind. He found being treated with ambivalence was better than being outwardly shunned.  
    The halls of Edoras were laid out in a grid format and he traced the familiar path to the king's council chamber. Empty. Papers on Eomer-King's desk scattered, he frowned, felt a familiar itch to organize them. He wanted them in piles of subject, date, and importance. He wanted a clear area of the desk marked for things that were Done and things Still to Do. His fingers traced over the old wood and he remembered sitting in that chair. He remembered the view out the window that was behind him. He remembered then didn't remember. Lifting the bag of ledgers he left them in a neat stack on of the last clear space on the desk. 

  
    I am not a man taken to fancies. I am not a man given to whims and fleeting passions. When I complete a task I complete fully, enormously. When I begin it I know what I am doing, what actions I am taking.  
    And so I will not tell him what I have discovered. I will not disclose such information about myself to him. He that is king. The information has long been known but never truly _known_. I hate him for it. But then, I've always sort of hated him, this is simply a new manifestation of my hate and on the way it got lost and now thinks it's something else. Something it cannot and will not be. I will not let it. And so I will not tell myself as much as I will not tell him. This fact about myself will disappear and the hiding of it will be done completely, utterly, fully and he will never know. Nor need he ever know. 

     
    The king wasn't due back for another week. The court continued its quiet ways and he found he didn't mind the silence. Mornings were lazy, slow. Afternoons hot and tedious. The muscles across his shoulders and lower back protested movement and his fingers were permanently black. The skin of his hands was dry and cracked, red raw and fresh underneath only to be covered with another layer of dirt.  
    Sometimes he wasn't sure he would ever stop smelling like sweat and compost and dirt and straw. He slept on hay and considered it an improvement from his last situation. He no longer felt the prick of roses and no longer minded the sting and small trickling trail of blood. Nettles still bit and stung but less than they used to. He no longer cursed under his breath when his arm passed over them.  
    At night he still dreamt. He dreamt of roots growing out of his fingers. He dreamt of coughing up dirt and leaves and worms. He dreamt of the king, sometimes. He dreamt of war, sometimes. He dreamt of both at once, often. When he woke he would lie still, breath in and out, close his eyes, and remembered what it was to forget. He would then roll out of the hay, wash his face, and make himself ready for the day.  
    And he would forget. He would always forget.  
    The king wasn't due back for another week. The court was quiet and for Grima, it was paradise. 

    A rider arrived in the morning as Grima nibbled on bread and cheese in the hall. He was shown to Godfrey who was left to help keep the capital in order while Eomer-king and Gamling were absent. It was soon announced that the king was expected back at the end of the week with a large party, at least fourteen.  
    Godfrey gave the announcement and ordered staff to prepare rooms. And when was Gamling to return? It wouldn't due for everyone to be absent when the king of Gondor arrives.  
    'I know what they say of us down in Gondor,' he explained to another lordling. 'They say that whilst we all come from the same Numenor stock, they got the better blood. It's always good to remind them that we are just as noble as they.'  
    Grima watched with detached amusement, said to no one in particular, how these new nobility do rise. And what do they know? He wondered. What do they know of negotiations, politics, diplomacy? Before him Godfrey and the other lords laugh loudly, someone had made a bawdy joke. Their hands were on their swords. They moved with practiced ease of men used to being armed.  
    Grima decided that they didn't know much. The court was so young, now. The old familiar faces were dead and buried, hatchlings replacing them before they learned how to fly. Godfrey caught his eye, saw his glowering look.  
    'Grima son of Galmud, you are allowed in here?'  
    'As you see.'  
    'Did my lord Eomer say as much?'  
    'He hasn't said anything less.'  
    There was a brief silence before Godfrey laughed, said it was probably for the best. What was that proverb Gamling the old was always quoting? Keep thy friends close, thy enemies closer. The lordling stared at Grima, he said,  
    'I know of you, traitor.'  
    'I'm glad to hear my name is still being spoken. Or is it? Or do they just call me Wormtongue?' He paused. There was a cliff in front of him. He wants to jump into it, feel careless wind on his face, taste careless dirt as his body is hammered into it through force of the fall. Feeling suicidal he sneered, 'I'm surprised you even knew my name. You're hardly a man. Must have been in diapers while I was here.' He gave a swift bow and left. Godfrey muttered something after him, vile worm it may have been. He had stopped hearing such insults years ago. 

  
    He retreated to the garden to let Godfrey finish fuming. The horse-lord was young and volatile and reminded Grima much of the old-old king Thengel son of Fengel. There are royal bastards sprinkled about, he knew. Theoden even had one or two, though no one spoke of it. He stretched, leaned into a tree trunk and watched leaves waves hover on the stone paths. He wondered where the bastards were now. Were they dead? Had they fallen upon orc-swords not knowing their father-king had sent them unknowingly to their deaths? Were they still alive? Picking a miserable living from this miserable land called blessed Rohan?  
    Rubbing his eyes he quieted his mind. It wouldn't do to think on such things. It wouldn't do to wonder what Rohan's inheritance laws were. Old habits died hard, he knew. Eomer was king, the bastards, if there were any (there had to be, yes? The king had been without wife for how many years? Twenty easily), were best not to be thought of. And most likely dead. He drifted off to sleep, feeling the heat of the sun mix with cold memories.  
    Sometimes, he dimly thought in the dream within a dream, I wish Orthanc would stop haunting me.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time coming. Apologies for the hiatus. With summer upon us it will hopefully happen less often. Things are very slowly picking up in the story. It will be getting tricky soon. Feel free to advise on how the relationship ought to work out when it finally does happen. I'm still in a bit of a grey area over it.


	8. Cardolan! Cardolan! A lost and fallen land, that stands between the ruin of man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> King's return to Edoras.

Eomer was traveling next to the wise hobbit called Sam. He had forgotten how much he enjoyed the simple goodness that made up the smaller creature. Their group was moving slowly and steadily north. The land had changed from course rock and shrub to golden grass. They were entering the Mark and Eomer was beginning to feel more at home. He shifted in the saddle and looked around. Aragorn-king-brother was happy. It was a simple happiness Eomer had never seen in the older man, though he had to admit he had not known him long. The elf queen Arwen was something radiant and he found he couldn't look at her for too long. Frodo was silent Frodo. Gandalf was as he ever was – incomprehensible yet so very human yet so very much not human. The elf lord Elrond half-even looked much like his  daughter, dark haired, noble browed, but with something more earthy, more tangable about him. The other three elves, the Lord and Lady of the silver-wood and Legolas Greenleaf, all wore neutral expressions. Lord Celeborn serious, Lady Galadrial a serene smile that could mean a hundred and one things, and Legolas something like contentment. Occasionally he laughed when the dwarf said something. The hobbits were much like children, even if they were adults in their own right. And his sister. His sister was sitting high and happy with a secret smile that she had been wearing since Minas Tirith. Faramir was next to her wearing a similar look. Eomer felt jealous, a little sad, a little uncertain. This was a new age. This was supposed to be full of new beginnings, not new farewells.  
    'I've never ridden a horse for this long.' Sam said and Frodo laughed. The first one in a few days.  
    'It's not a horse, Sam. It's a pony. Lord Eomer is on a horse.'  
    Sam looked sheepish, smiled, then laughed. 'As you say Mister Frodo. Still, I've never ridden for this long.' Frodo just laughed again, saying Oh Sam. Which seemed to mean something Eomer couldn't pick up on so let it be.

  
    That night they made camp under the wide stretch of deep blue night sky. Eomer did his best to sleep but only dreamt strange dreams. One was of a river and a horse (that same one, that one with Theodred) and it seemed old. He had woken thinking – how long has it been since my cousin died? It has been nearly a year. Why am I still dreaming these dreams? Why do I still feel guilty for living? He tried again. This time he dreamt of spider black hair and pale blue eyes and a sneering, sneering, always knowing smile. He felt strings tugging at his arms, at his feet. In the dream he was his uncle and he swung the sword, there was a head in his hands. There was blood on the ground of Edoras. Then just liquid, pale, crystal cold blue eyes. He woke and didn't think about that dream. It would be a bad idea, he knew, to think about that one too much.  
    Faramir was staring into the fire and seeming lost to himself. Eomer joined him, passed him a flask of something strong and foul. The other man was thankful for it. Took a gulp, then another.  
    'I was thinking of my brother,' he said by way of explanation. Ah, Eomer thought, Boromir of whom I have heard so little but everyone seems to know so much.  
    'When did he die?'  
    'I'm not sure, a year ago. I learned of it,' he paused. There was something he was pondering. 'It seems harsh, to lose a brother and a father within a month. I had only learned of it recently, you see. I had _known_ without knowing. But to hear it confirmed.' He trailed off. Eomer shifted, took the flask back and helped himself.  
    'How did he die? If you don't mind my asking.'  
    'In battle. He fell fighting Uruk-hai.' There was a shudder. A suppressed emotion and Faramir was biting everything back. 'They bore the white hand of Saruman.'  
    Eomer nodded. Just nodded and nodded and said he understood. My cousin, he said. Fell in battle to them as well. And he just nodded. And didn't think about dreams. And didn't think about men he wanted dead but couldn't stand the thought of killing.

  
    You are our king, Gamling had said to Theoden. Outside there had been the pounding of battle. There had been the sharpening of swords. The quiet sobs of frightened men, women, children. There had been a certainty that none would make it out alive.  
    You are our king and so we will follow you unto whatever end.  
    And Theoden. Wise, foolish, hurting Theoden had asked – And do you trust your king?  
    Gamling had not answered. He told Eomer this – I could not answer. For what was there to say?  
    Faramir seemed to understand and said to Eomer – sometimes there is nothing you can do but hope and trust and hold on and plead to something and someone that it will all be all right. Sometimes, even if you don't trust them, or think them wise, your leaders are the only things getting you through it all. That's what it means to be king. To be a leader. A steward. A general. A captain. It means you are the thing holding everyone together even if it means that you yourself fall apart.

  
    Three days before they reached Edoras Merry and Pippin managed to convince Legolas that he and Gimli were tied on the outcome of their 'how many baddies did you kill in battle?' competition. Aragorn told them he would forever be in debt to them because he had been sick of hearing Gimli explaining ad nausea why killing an Oliphant only counted as one. Arwen had said – oh, my love, let them have their fun. And Aragorn had said – my dear, you haven't been traveling with them.

  
    Two days before they reached Edoras Gandalf told Pippin that there were to be fireworks and he was not to walk within ten feet of them. And you too Merriadoc Brandybuck. I know you both of old and your ways. The two hobbits had complained and said he was being cruel and that they were innocent of all implied charges.  
    'I have my doubts about that,' Faramir had said, amused. Sam had laughed, turned to Frodo and said – Tell them Mister Frodo, about Mister Bilbo's one hundred and eleventh birthday. Aragorn started laughing and even Lord Elrond managed to look amused.  
    'Well,' Pippin piped up. 'You have to admit it was a good lark.'  
    Gandalf just threw his hands up – Hobbits!

  
    A day before they reached Edoras Eomer had a dream. He woke, rolled over, stared at the dying fire. He squeezed his eyes shut and told himself to stop dreaming Grima Wormtongue's dreams. There was a mountain and fire, liquid fire. He was struggling, then he was alone in Edoras. The great city empty. Alone but for Grima who sat on his throne. When he woke, he thought maybe, maybe, briefly, he swore Grima had, but no, no. It was fading.  
    When he woke, he thought maybe, but! – no, no that cannot be so. It _could_ not be so. He thought he had seen a fleeting of skin and fire and a throne and a bed. Fading. The dream was just fire and rock and anxiety and pain. Grima was not there. I was not dreaming his dreams and something more.  
    Sam was awake when he seated himself by the fire. He was holding his hat in his hands and humming a tune.  
    'One of your people's songs?' Eomer asked as he warmed his hands.  
    'Oh, no, sir. It's a song from a peculiar man we met once. It seems so long ago. A year. Feels more than that.'  
    'What was it about?'  
    The hobbit considered it for a moment then laughed, 'you know. I don't rightly know. I think it was about his wife, Goldberry. He was a mystery, that man.'  
    'His name?'  
    'Tom Bombadil, he saved us from the trees. Not the Entish sort, the ones Merry and Pippin speak of. But other ones that were none too kind. And he saved us from Barrow-Wightes.'  
    'You owe him a great deal.'  
    'Do we ever!' Sam said it with gusto which was quickly dampened. Shadows of the others shifted as they slept. He thought on something for a minute and Eomer kept still. 'He was strangely unaffected by the ring.' He said at last. The ever present, never spoken of subject was finally broached. 'He didn't turn invisible when he tried it on. _Now let the song begin! Let us sing together, of sun, stars, moon and mist, rain and cloudy weather...'_

  
    Aragorn told him of old kingdoms as they rode into Edoras. Ones that men have forgotten and not even their kings have names. Only graves and dust and dirt that were once bones and flesh and cloth.  
    'When Angmar laid siege to the southern lands it was the kingdom of Cardolan who stood between the darkness of the north and the light of the south. These kingdoms are in the lands of Eriador and were once of the Dunedain but are now of the shire-folk, the Bree-folk, and the dead-folk.'  
    'The dead-folk?'  
    'Aye, the hobbits believe that the Barrow-Downs are haunted by the spirits of the dead.' Aragorn gave a slight smile. 'And they are almost right. But perhaps now, with the shadow of the east destroyed, things in this world will rest easier.'  
    'What happened to Cardolan?'  
    'The men of the kingdom fought valiantly against the Witch-King of Angmar. They fought long and hard and held on to hope for as long as hope served. But in the end the king died and the people fell. They left only bones and shells of bodies behind. Soon my people, the Dunedain, came to inhabit their world. The watch tower of Amon Sul became a place of solemn mystery. A beacon to what once was and never will be. But then the great plague came through, the white tree of Gondor withered, and the strength of men failed.'  
    'I cannot count on my hands how many times in our history that the strength of men has failed.'  
    A delicate pause then Aragorn-King-Ellesar laughed. It was bright, light and lit up the hearts of those around him.  
    'I suppose we enjoy ominous retellings. At least I of all people do.'  
    'You are hardly alone in that, brother-king. I remember hearing of our strength failing at least once every day during lessons as a lad. If it hadn't happened more than three times the day had not been an exciting one. It's something, to be taught that your race has no strength, that all we are is failure. That we cannot win so why bother to begin.' Eomer paused. He thought of a dark, pale man who had told him with fear in his eyes – _my lord, we are going to die_. 'I think we ought to have been taught differently.'  
    'Do you think it would have changed things?'  
    'I don't know. Perhaps. Maybe only a little, but still. Hope should always be taught.'  
    'Indeed. A shame, that our fathers did not know hope.'

  
    Eomer wandered through the halls of a place he had always called home but had never felt so alien in until this night. There were sounds of merry making and hobbit songs coming from the main hall. He could hear people dancing. A laugh, his sister, another that was deeper. Faramir, perhaps? He found himself in a small room, dark with low shelves on the walls stacked with books. The edges peered out at him, old handwriting telling him what the spine would say should he choose to read them. There was dust. And damp. The old vellum was cracking on some, bending up and out, pushing the book on top forward. He plucked one up at random, flipped through a few pages, an old romance. A tale of a woman who had to go on seven quests to save her love who had been captured by a dragon.  
    He picked up another. A collection of short histories of a kingdom he had never heard of. Another, a diary of Fengel. Another, a history of both Brego and Aldor the Old. A large one now with musty maps and drawings of elves and dwarves. He flips through a few pages before setting it aside.  
    'I think we have a few useful books for a king,' the voice was soft. It reminded him of dark corners, shadows hiding between nooks and crannies.  
    'Wormtongue,' he said without turning around. Something shifted behind him and a book was put in front of him.  
    ' _Maxims of Helm_ _Hammerhand_. For a man dedicated to war and castle building, he was surprisingly insightful. And literate.' A bow and the older man slipped from the shadowed room in the shadowed hall. He was silent as he went into the night, away from the noise of the living.

   _“Intelligence and reasoning is only bestowed on men to make them unhappy and miserable. It causes not but worry and heartache as they climb through different possibilities and seemingly inevitable outcomes. My father, King Gram, always said that the only happy man is an ignorant one.” -Maxims of Helm Hammerhand._

  
    Roses were in bloom, their scent permeated one corner of the garden. Eomer thought about his future bride, whoever she may be, and decided that she would probably like this part of the garden. Don't women like flowers and trees and birds? Weren't they supposed to be found sitting among them, a pretty face with pretty things? He didn't know but decided it would be as such. Eowyn didn't though, but Eowyn was different. Eowyn was his sister, after all. Growing amongst the roses was a pretty little vine, an ivy of sorts, winding its way along the wall.  
    'Don't touch that,' A voice from behind him said it with something like amusement. 'It's poisonous.' Grima was standing the shade of a tree, his face was a study of an emotion Eomer couldn't place.  
    'Then why do you leave it?'  
    'Harmless if you don't touch it.'  
    'And if you do?'  
    'You won't die, if that's what you're asking.' He watched his king for a moment before looking towards the golden hall. 'Welcome home, my liege. I don't believe I said it the other night.'  
    'You came back. And thank you for the ledgers.'  
    'You didn't know I would?'  
    'No. It was a gamble.'  
    A noise, a tsch, and Grima detached himself from the tree and wandered towards the other side, 'didn't know you were a gambling man, Eomer-king.'  
    'Why did you come back?'  
    A pause. Grima's back was to him, hair in a cue, left hand out fingering a leaf. He turns three quarters, 'the view of the mountains is best from Edoras.'  
    And there was frustration, anger, annoyance. Why, why _why_ couldn't he speak plain? Speak like a man of Rohan speaks instead of snake-tongued. 'Say what you mean, Grima.'  
    'I did.'  
    'Then you never tell me anything ever. It's always pretty little words put in a pretty little line. Can't you speak plainly for once?'  
    'And give myself away, Eomer? I thought you would have known me better.'  
    'For all your dislike of fables and stories, you speak in them a damn lot.' He moved across, following the older man. Grima turned to see him and had those pale patient eyes. Eomer had forgotten that they look like a frozen stream in the sunlight. How Grima had remained so pale was beyond the king. 'Why did you come back? You could have run.'  
    A pause as thoughts were gathered. 'A myriad of reason, Eomer-king. All of them private. Go back to your guests before they wonder where you've run off to.'  
    They stood a foot apart and the air was warm, summer air. Heavy, hot, sticky. Eomer turned to go, waited a second, then turned back.  
    'That wasn't an answer.'  
    'No, but you shan't get one. Be content.'  
    'Helm Hammerhand said that men are more easily moved by hope than by fear.'  
    Grima smiled. It was an ugly look, calculating, wolfish. He moves like a creature of wheels and cogs, Eomer thought. The gods above, he moves like stealthy machinery.  
    'Helm Hammerhand was a wise man, I always thought.'

  
    When Eomer let himself stop. Truly stop. Late at night the empty ache would take hold. It was that dull throb behind ribs that would move and nestle itself in the pit of his stomach and make his meals turn sour. When he allowed himself to stop he would remember them. His uncle, his cousin, his friends who were now dead. When he walked into the throne room he knew they wouldn't be there but he still thought of them. When he rode through the warm fields of Rohan he knew they wouldn't be at his side, but seeing the gold of the earth meld into the sapphire of the sky he would be reminded of them. When he tried to sleep but found himself thinking too much he would remember them. Remember them so the shadows of his room swarmed in front of his eyes and all he could think about were snippets of old conversations, flashes of their faces before it all ended, the sound of the voices, the laughs, the simple _being,_ the simple _presence_ of their existence. He would remember them and remember them and remember them and _fuck_ no one said that loss hurt like this. No one said it was constant and dull; a small chisel chipping away slowly and steadily. In the dark hours of night when you couldn't sleep it was there. Dull. Dull. Dull and aching.  
    When Eomer let himself stop he was reminded why he didn't let it happen. He worked late hours. Stayed up conversing with Aragorn-king-brother, with Legolas and Gimli, with Sam the wise hobbit, with all and sundry who happened to be up with him. He would find things to do. Swords to sharpen. Books to read. Letters to write. When he woke, if he let himself sleep, he woke early and worked. He worked and worked and worked. He still remembered his uncle who had been his father, his cousin who had been his brother. And nothing seemed to make it better.  
    Sometimes, when the ache that had settled now in his jaws from clenching them to keep the hot stings in his eyes at bay, he would wander through the gardens at night. Sometimes he found that shadow there. The one who _should_ have died, the one who _should_ have been gone, the one who _should_ have fallen instead of his uncle-king-father. They wouldn't speak. Grima would watch him, not say anything. Instead he would stare up at the stars before slipping off to wherever he had made his bed. Eomer didn't want to know. He didn't know what he would do if he knew.  
    When Eomer let himself stop nothing good ever came of it.

  
    In the late afternoon the sun was dying a slow and beautiful death across the sky. The world was painted red, Eowyn's dress was tinted and her face a smile as radiant as the dying beast in the sky. She was laughing with Aragorn and Gimli. Faramir joined in with smiles and soft looks.  
    'He reminds me of Boromir, sometimes,' Frodo told him. They were standing at the edge of the stairs leading up the golden hall that truly looked golden in the sunset. 'But gentler, less angry.'  
    'I never knew Boromir. But I hear he was a great man. A shame that he passed so young.'       
    The hobbit considered this for a minute. Sam was right, Eomer thought, Frodo is too much like the white wizard. He wondered what the hobbit had been like before. When Sam spoke of his Mr Frodo it was with shining eyes and much love. 'Gandalf once told me that there were many who lived that should have died and many that died who ought to have lived but that we are not the ones who can make that decision.'  
    'It was no one's decision that Boromir should die, but it is still a shame that he passed, and that he was so young. But, in war the young die and the old linger, as my uncle used to say.'  
    'Sam tells me that it is a new age and that we all should be happy now.'  
    Eomer laughs, it is low and gentle. He can feel the ring-bearer looking at him. 'In the stories we should be happy. The song is over, after all. The bard has gone, the mead is all drunk and men are snoring on their benches. So I suppose we ought to be happy now. Fourth age, the age of men and hobbits.' He laughed again, this time Frodo joined. 'I wonder what I'm going to do with the north.'  
    'The north?'  
    'We're having problems with the wild men. Grima-' He stops. Frowns. He wonders when he had sought Grima's advice on the matter of the north. He wondered why he had.  
    'What did he say?'  
    'That Saruman had been right about the wild men, that they had been here before Rohan and that one of our, oh I can hear him sneering, one of our _glorious_ kings had run them out of house and home to “scrape a living off rocks” I believe was the phrase.'  
    A laugh ripples up from the group below them. They are happy, Eomer thought, turning to go inside. They are happy and that is enough.

    Gamling returned on the fourth day of the visit. Eomer greeted him warmly, yelled for a pint of cider, warmed. He pushed the older man down onto a bench and sat opposite him as they had done before everything. Gamling toasted to Rohan, to the King, and to a warm bed. They drank.  
    'Tell me everything.' Eomer said after a lull. That Gamling was tired was an understatement. That Gamling looked a mess didn't begin to cover it.  
    'Nothing we haven't seen before,' the older man said after some consideration. He took a sip. 'Burnt crops, dead children, raped women, destroyed villages.'  
    'Did you meet with the wild men?'  
    'No. Saw hide nor hair when we were up visiting the lad's village. There are about one hundred according to the estimates of Lord Heah, Firkin's father. We left some men with him, to keep guard. A swift attack on the wildings should be enough to scare them off. Show them the might of Rohan.'  
    Eomer nodded, it was an affirmation of what he already knew. Attack would be necessary, and sooner rather than later. One does not let open wounds fester. He stood, said that he would see to arranging the appropriate number of men for the ride. Oh, and Gamling, there will be a council tomorrow. If there is anything we need from Gondor this would be the time to ask.

  
    There was the sound of pen on vellum when Eomer wandered into the garden later that evening. Grima was sitting on a stool, stooped over papers, balancing them on one knee and an ink well on another. He watched for a minute before approaching with enough noise to not startle.  
    'You're working hard.' He said, glancing down at the quickly shuffled papers.  
    'Not much else to do.'  
    'What are you writing?'  
    'Nothing of any import.'  
    Eomer frowned, Grima stared back with impartial face. A minute passed. Then another. Eomer finally reached down and picked up a piece from yielding fingers.  
    'We have never been men of books,' he said as he scanned over the page. 'I think it's something that should change. We should write down our songs and our lore.' He paused, lips moving over the words.  
    'Then they will no longer be sung.' The parchment was plucked back, buried in the small stack on the ground near him. 'But I won't discourage the change. Is there anything you would like my lord?'  
    The younger man was about to deny, to say, no, no, nothing I would like. I was just...visiting. Or something. I'll leave you now, I'll go back to the hall and to the mead and the song and the dance. I'll leave you here with your sallow skin and tallow candles. Instead he said, 'you didn't answer my question.'  
    'Which was?' Grima had returned to his writing.  
    'What are you writing?'  
    'Memories, my lord king.'  
    'Memories of the first war of the ring and the fall of Morgoth? I hadn't realised you were of such a great age.'  
    Grima smiled. Cold and wicked. He said, there are many things about me you do not know, my lord. But I thought we had already covered that fact.

  
    The next day bloomed soft pink and blue and white. There were slips of clouds in the sky, high above and almost translucent. The lady Arwen greeted him in the morning and said, my lord Eomer it is a blessed day. He agreed. Managed to sound rough and haggard and very much like a man of Rohan.  
    'How do you find Gondor, brother king?' He asked as Aragorn entered the room. The other man smiled, greeted Arwen and said that it was much to his liking.  
    'Though I do miss the wilds of the north.'  
    'If you want wilds go east a little ways. I hear Mordor is beautiful this time of year.'  
    'Ah, but brother, one does not simply walk into Mordor.' It was said with a quick smile that hid a laugh. Eomer frowned, not understanding.  
    'I'm fairly sure that's exactly what one does.'  
    Aragorn chuckled then caught himself, coughed. He smiled and said, 'what do you want to speak of?'  
    'I need men.' Eomer said it with a crushing silence that followed. He wanted to explain it, to apologise for it but said nothing instead. Aragorn seemed to understand, he nodded once and declared that as brother to the king of Rohan he would deliver. Out of love and brotherhood.  
  
    After the council the king of Gondor spoke with Rohan-King. 'How goes your traitor-turned-hero?'  
    Eomer was taken aback. He waited for a moment then said that it was going well, thank you, why do you ask? Aragorn replied with silence. Silence and a look that said that I understand more than you ever could but I will keep to my silence as you keep to yours.  
    Later, Eomer found Gamling and said, another man can write the history of the war. You are busy and I don't want to burden you with it. The older man didn't answer for a spell. His hands played with the hilt of his sword, with the edge of his armour.  
    'Another man already is, sire.' He said at last. He was looking over Eomer's shoulder, eyes lingering on some unseen spot on the wall. 'I tried but I couldn't manage it so I asked the only man of words around.'  
    The king remained still then gave a sharp laugh, 'so that's what he was working on.'

  
             _The Second War of the Ring. The Third Age._

            _Much was lost with the fall of Numenor. We only know fragments that have been shifted and stolen and silently overheard from the Elves. I traveled north once. As as young man. And there I heard a story of an elf of the first age who waged a terrible war to take back what was stolen. His name I did not hear, but his deeds were sung in a low and solemn voice. The Elves then stopped and said, see, this is why Creators are neither good nor evil. They are the outcome of what they create. Including the great Eru who created Morgoth._

  
    Rohan was a land without books, without scrawled fables. Grima asked to the night air, how many stories have been lost? How many names forgotten? Because we were too proud to write them down. Because we thought ourselves above our parchment driven brothers to the south. Because we thought ourselves superior to the silent woodland creatures called elves.  
    He discarded another sheet to the ground. It rested by his feet and he dipped his quill in dark ink.

             _Rohan first came to its doom in the third age when Fengel, King, came to the throne._

    'Have you noticed that we never write of bad kings? All our kings were good, kind, noble and everything one hopes for from a king.' Grima said it by ways of a 'good morning, sire, and how do you fare this fair day'. Eomer wasn't surprised and let the man continue speaking. 'I was listening to the men last night as they sang. It was only, Thoden fell at Pellenor, a good man, and Bron fell at Pellanor, an honourable man, Silwen fell at Helms Deep, a true and just man. Gamling sang that one. Gamling didn't like Silwen.'  
    'There is nothing wrong in honouring the dead.'  
    'Even when it's not true? Bron was a drunkard who beat his wife. But now he's the honoured dead. Much good glory will do him when he's buried. Or is he buried? I think I heard from someone that an orc ate part of his face.'  
    'An orc ate all of his face and a bit more besides. Why are you telling me these things?'  
    'Because you want a history of Rohan written and I can't make it about that sort of history.'  
    A silence spread out for a moment. Grima clipped a rosebud, it fell to their feet. Its petals were mottled white and yellow over the pinkish-red. It had died before it could bloom.  
    'You are suddenly caring much for the truth.' It came out more angry than Eomer had intended. Grima flicked eyes up and his face remained blank. Blank as the empty fields of the fold.  
    'A man can change,' he said with a distant voice. Eomer replied, If you're going to lie to me don't do it so directly. What are you up to? 'Writing a history, as you wanted. Just, don't expect a ballad about the glories of the fallen men. That's what I'm telling you.'  
    'Why can't there be glories?'  
    The older man didn't answer for a spell. He wiped the knife he was using off with a damp cloth then moved to the next plant. Eomer scowled, tracked his movements with a wary eye. Grima was reminded that when Eomer was angry his eyes were a stormy, stormy dark blue. They made him think of the sea he had never seen but had heard stories of.  
    'I think Gamling would say that I am not an honourable man and so I don't like to hear about the glorious deeds of good men. He would be right, to a certain degree.'  
    'And what would Grima son of Galmud say?'  
    A pensive look. Another dead bud dropped to their feet. I'm not sure, he managed at last. But then I've already told you before, this isn't son of Galmud you're speaking to. This is Wormtongue and Wormtongue never tells the entire truth.             
  
 _Rohan has a new king. Rohan has a new king named Eomer nephew of Theoden and cousin of Theodred. Rohan has a new king in this new age. Rohan. Rohan. Rohan. Rohan. Fuck Rohan.  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May I gloat for a minute? There are one or two passages in this chapter that I am very proud of.  
> That is all.


	9. Iron Founded and Tree Hewn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theoden is Buried. Memories exchanged. Eomer and Aragorn ride north.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the slow slog continues. Here we have the next chapter. Um, things are very slowly picking up? With the speed of a snail with a bit of caffeine in it?

Theoden was buried in the early morning when the sky was soft and between worlds. Eowyn sang about the great deeds of the dead man who had not been a great man. Merely an acceptable one. Eomer managed a few terse words and dropped the ever blooming Simbelmyne before the grave. It is much like Rohan, he thought, that when you enter the city you must first pass through a graveyard.  
            Aragorn brought him a pint of ale and sat with him in silence that evening. Faramir joined them, then Frodo. A minute passed before the ring-bearer suggested a toast. A toast to the dead and missed. A murmur passed through and they raised their glasses in unison and drank to the ghosts of their memories.  
            Even after the drink Eomer still expected his uncle to walk into the room. He still expected his cousin to flop into the throne and laughingly say – men make such a heady to-do over this wooden chair with a bit of gold lining. But they didn't come in. They couldn't. They were weighed down with stone and earth and the heavy press of the sky above them.

 

            He didn't see much of the Elves. Eomer wondered about them and their silence, their presence that was tangible in a way that no man's ever was. He liked to think about what their lands must be like. He felt that they had to be clean and beautiful and feel barely-lived in. A pretty little toy that human hands would only make dirty. A sort of un-reality within the too real world.  
            He asked Grima who shrugged and said that he wouldn't know. That he had never seen an elf before now so it was all rather new. The Queen of Gondor sometimes came to the gardens, he said. They never spoke. She would look at everything, smile for some unimaginable reason, and leave. Sometimes she would come with the elf Queen. The blond formidable one. They would stand under this tree here and speak softly in elvish.  
            'I don't much care for them,' Grima finished.  
            'You don't find them beautiful?'  
            A cock of his head to the side, 'I suppose. In the way that one finds the mountains or a storm beautiful. Something to respect and look at but not to touch or understand.'

 

            Helm Hammerhand wrote, or spoke aloud and someone wrote for him, that one ought to be wary of those who speak too loudly or proclaim too much about their love of their land. Those who eagerly speak of their love of their king and the realm. Nearly all of them will have his own agenda and particular interests in mind.  
            Farther down Hammerhand says that a true test of a man's spirits is when he must face an unexpected hardship or danger. Those who hold out, and they will be few mind you, may be called brave.  
            When he took the book to Grima and said, I have finished it. The older man nodded and made the thin volume disappear into a small bag on his belt.  
            'Did you have a favourite?' He asked as Eomer made to leave. The king shrugged, said he found them cynical. 'A few years on the throne may change that.'  
            'And you?'  
            'Couldn't say, sire.' He turned back to the ground, kneeling before Eomer could grab his shoulder. There was a moment. A beat. Eomer watched the older man's back, the way shoulder blades moved under dark fabric. Hair in a queue and slumping forward into his face.  
            'Do you know how much damage you caused?'  
            Grima stilled. Fingers hovering over dirt, marred black with pale skin underneath.  
            'Do you know how much there is to repair because of you? Do you know how many lives you destroyed?' His voice was quiet. The air was still, thick and hot. Grima's hands settled on the ground. Eomer could see muscles tensing, waiting for something. 'You don't, do you?'  
            'Couldn't say, sire.' Said so so softly.  
            'Should have left you where you fell.'

 

            Eomer relented later that evening and took a pint of ale to Grima and said stiffly, Here, have something to drink. You were working long in the sun.  
            The older man watched him for a moment. A steady moment. A long moment. Till at last he took the drink, bowed his head, and said Thank you, my lord. And no more. Because when he wanted to, Grima son of Galmud could be as silent as the mountains.  
            'Have you ever been north?' Eomer sat across from him. The few left in the Golden Hall were watching.  
            'How north do you mean by north?' The ale was hoppy and crisp. A bitter tang ran down his tongue and throat.  
            'North of Fangorn, of Angmar even.'  
            Grima thought about saying yes. Of coming up with a tale of cold snow that drove men mad with its silence. There is a bay made of ice up north, he knew. There are strange, magical lights that dance in the sky at night in the north. There are animals no man in this place would recognise in the north.  
            Instead he smiled a fraction, said No, he had never been north. At least not that far. Orthanc is hardly north if you thought about it, is it?  
            'No. I suppose the ring bearer is from a land more north than that.'  
            'And Lord Aragorn even more north still.'  
            They sat in silence. The hall had only a few people left who minded their own. Eomer could feel his uncle's eyes on him, asking him softly – why do you sit with a traitor? And Eomer had no answer.  
            Grima finished his pint and pushed the mug away. Still the silence remained.  
            'You asked if I knew what damage I have caused,' he began tentatively. The younger man kept a stern face. 'I did answer honestly.'  
            'First time in years, I'm sure.'  
            For a second Grima wanted to take offence but he bowed to Eomer instead, said that the young lordling would know best, wouldn't he?  
            'It's late, my lord. I think I'll retire.' He stood, palms flat on the table between them. Something had passed, Eomer noted. Something could have happened tonight but I can't think what. 'Sleep well.'

 

            He took to carefully watching his sister. She laughed and smiled at him, saying he was being too cautious.  
            'I am your brother,' he said, feeling a little ashamed. 'I ought to look out for your well being since I have failed so miserably these past twenty years at least.'  
            Eowyn shrugged, adjusted her sword in her hand, 'I have never complained, brother mine. There was much going on in our lives. Individual happiness was the least of our concerns.' She moved forward, there was the sound of iron on iron. Their swords fell apart.  
            'I should have listened to you more.' He answered in earnest. They were dancing about each other, blades ready. The hall was empty, benches pushed against walls and the only thing in the way was the central fire. 'You rode with us to Pellenore.'     
            'And I'd do it again.'  
            She struck first, moving to his left. He blocked her and put the fire between them. She laughed and began slowly circling around.  
            'I'd take up my sword as soon as Rohan called,' she said. 'I am her shield maiden, after all.'

  
            Eomer wanted. He wanted. He wanted – he wasn't sure. He felt his skin itching, a buzzing in his fingers, a need to do  _something._ A rash act, something to take him over the edge of this intangible waiting period. Sometimes his body wanted to lurch forward, to grasp onto – onto – onto – he had no words for what exactly he wanted to do.  
            Aragorn said he was restless. That perhaps visiting his people might help. Getting out in the country air. After all, Eomer son of Eomund was raised to be a prince of Rohan, a rider of the Mark. Never its king. He was not raised to sit still.             
            'You might be right,' he owed. They were standing in front of Meduseld. Eomer's hand was rest on sword hilt. The summer sky stretched hard and blue above them. 'I should go north. Take the situation of the bandits and wildings under control. Its good for a people to see their kind so active, isn't it?' He looked to the older man who nodded.  
            'It gives them strength. Think of how heartened your people were when Theoden took his sword in hand.' Here the king of Gondor paused. 'What say you and I ride north? Take a few men, visit the villages, show your people their new king. It may do them good.'  
            Eomer considered it. He lingered on thoughts of home and hearth and the wide, welcoming hall. I have just come back, he wanted to say. I have just returned I ought not leave again.  
            ‘You don’t have to decide immediately.’ Aragorn said with a smile. ‘But to see what Gamling spoke of might help clear your mind, focus your energies and intent.’  
            ‘Of course, brother-king, you are right. I will,’ he paused. He paused. Paused. Lingered. The hall was bathed in the gold of an afternoon sun. Oh he lingered. ‘I will let you know tomorrow.’ And Aragorn said that is good, all things a king should think on and take his time with. Though some, he added wanly, should not be lingered over too long. Swift action is needed upon occasion.  
            It was later that night and Eomer asked, ‘Do you think he fears to die before her?’ Eowyn looked to her brother with raised eyebrow. ‘The king of Gondor and his queen. Do you think he fears that?’  
            ‘She has chosen mortality. There must be some comfort in that. That even if he dies, or she dies, they will meet again beyond the Sundering Sea. Just as one day we will meet our parents, our uncle-king, cousin Theodred in the halls of our forefathers.’ She drank her ale, picked at the plate in front of her. ‘Why these dark thoughts, brother?’  
            ‘I couldn’t say.’  
            Outside the hills of Rohan were dark and the wind was gentle, the grass soft. There were nightly noises of horses nickering before sleep, night-birds singing their songs, crickets and bull frogs joining together in a caucaphone of a night time score.

 

            It was an early hour of the morning, a late hour of the evening when Eomer ventured into the gardens. Somewhere a nightingale sang. He was reminded of his mother and her sweet voice. He only did remember bits of her, a smell, a sound, a colour. No definite articles, no definite recollections. Just a series of half-guesses. Was this important because of my mother? Do I love the smell of cinnamon baking because of her? Do I prefer harp music to all else because of her?  
            ‘When I was a boy I had my hair cut short, I think I had gotten something in it. Tree sap or the like. It wouldn’t come out so my locks were chopped short. My father had said that my mother would have wept over my golden curls.’  
            Grima was standing by a bush and staring at him with confusion. Eomer made no move to continue, he fingered a leaf.  
            ‘And what did you say?’  
            ‘That I could hardly remember her.’ He sighed. ‘I hadn’t meant to be cruel. But, I suppose children can be the cruellest of us but without intent.’  
            ‘Or sometimes with. I have distinct memories of being strung up in a tree by my britches when I was a lad.’  
            It was sudden. The bubbling laughter, the giddy light headed feeling. Eomer was walking on the knife’s edge of something and for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what. Instead he laughed, laughed at the image, at Grima’s pursed-lipped-dead-fish expression, laughed at the absurdity of standing in a garden at two in the morning with a traitor, laughed at the sky and the moon and the stars and the heavens above.  
            ‘It was highly traumatizing, I assure you.’ The older man grumbled. He huffed. ‘I don’t see why you’re laughing again.’ Another huff. ‘Really, my lord. This is unbecoming of a king. Mocking his subject in such a way.’  
            A minute passed and Eomer caught his breath, the night seemed brighter and the weight of the past days was lessened. I haven’t laughed like that since, he paused in thought. Since I can’t remember. He looked back to Grima and sighed, went back to his leaf and his fidgeting.  
            ‘Fidgeting with flora isn’t kingly, either.’  
            ‘Now you’re trying.’  
            The older man frowned, he said, No, my lord. I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. Trying to make me laugh, Eomer clarified. Grima shrugged, Well, it happens so rarely.  
            There it is, Eomer suddenly thought. There it is, that impasse, we’ve come to it. And I’m teetering on something, something, something. And he’s watching, watching, watching, and not moving and thinking. Gods above, he’s thinking. The little wheels behind those watery blue eyes are moving, clicking, ticking, it’s unnerving.  
            ‘Why are you here?’ Asked at last and Grima thought he saw uncertainty in Eomer’s eyes. Oh they’re blue, blue, midnight blue.  
            ‘I was reminded of the time you told me about your sister. I was repaying the kindness.’  
            ‘Kindness?’  
            ‘One old memory for another.’ The king shrugged. It had passed, whatever it was. He was tired and it was late and the moon was large and heavy on the horizon. ‘You’re up late.’  
            ‘I don’t sleep much.’  
            ‘Guilty conscience?’  
            Grima made a tch, and said, That’s below you, my lord. But didn’t say anything else. He gave a sweeping bow and Eomer had it in mind to check him for his cheekiness and slipped into the ever present shadows of the foliage.  
            Eomer waited a moment, then another moment, then said to still night air, ‘I am going north with Lord Aragorn. To see our people.’ He thought he heard a hummed reply, a sigh through the night, a rustle of the leaves, that might have been, I’ll miss you. But, later, in bed and ignoring ghosts he felt it must have been imagined.

  
            They rode north. Eomer had left with a band of trusted riders and King Ellesar who wanted to be known only as Aragorn at the moment, of not something more obscure. Gamling and Elfhelm had remained behind to keep order and ensure Edoras ran smoothly. Arwen had smiled and kissed her beloved and had said, Are you ever able to stop working? I married  _you_ , my love. And Aragorn had laughed and said, I know. I’ll try, when I return. I promise.  
            ‘I find that I occasionally miss the days when I was known as Strider or Longshanks.’ Aragorn said on their second day. The sky was long and blue overhead, the sun hot on their backs, their horses keeping at an easy pace.  
            ‘Longshanks?’ Eomer laughed. ‘What a name that is.’  
            ‘Oh, and Wingfoot is better?’  
            ‘Sounds better in Rohirim.’ The younger man made a face but soon laughed. ‘But I take your point. There is a village a few hours from here, we will stop there first, I think. Gamling mentioned that they need provisions if they are going to last the winter.’ He leaned forward and patted his horse.

             
            It is later, later in the evening and a few pints in on a half-full stomach when Eomer turned to Aragorn and said, ‘I thought I had braved all the horrors that the world had to offer.’ He sips the ale and sighs. It’s a little sour, a little like cat’s piss, a little weak, but he doesn’t say. Instead he turns to the mistress of the house and smiles.  
            ‘We don’t get better in Edoras.’  
            She blushed and curtsied, Thank you, sire. Her husband beamed next to her. Aragorn added his compliments in accented Rohirim. He had said to Eomer, when they arrived, I am not the king of Gonder here. Please, can I not be Strider for a week? And Eomer had said, Whatever you want, brother.  
            ‘When I am next in Gondor I expect the favour returned,’ Eomer said when the couple had withdrawn. ‘I will be Eomer, third marshal of the Riddermark.’  
            Aragorn laughed, pulled bread apart. ‘Whatever you want, brother.’   
            They sat in silence for a moment. Sipping ale and nibbling on the last of the bread and cheese before them. Their meal had not been hardy but it had been enough. More than enough, when he considered the state of the village. Of their stores, their people, their morale.  
            ‘I sometimes want to make him pay for it.’ He finally broke the silence. Gondor-king looked up from his revere and sighed. No, he said softly. It’s not all his fault, and killing him won’t fix anything. This war, this war was so much bigger than one person. ‘As all wars are.’ Eomer murmured. His mind was recalling a maxime of Helm Hammerhand. The man who had said, ‘I think we have a few useful books for a king’ and had pressed it into his hand.  
            ‘Indeed, but we are in a new age. A time of man. I think it’s best we rise above the expectations set for us.’ Aragorn laughed. ‘Because, I fear, they are not high.’

 

            Eomer slept on a lumpy bed with small red bugs nibbling at his skin, with the sound of owls out his window and the soft, silken gaze of the moon across his bed. He dreamt of a tower, tall, fearsome and where Grima had once told him that long ago men had studied stars from the pinnacle. Oh the stars. Wise and forlorn in their cage of a sky. He dreamt of an old and wise man singing, humming more, a soft tune of  _ere iron was found and tree was hewn, when young was mountain under moon; Ere ring was made, or wrought was woe, it walked the forests long ago._  
            He woke, startled, a lark was watching him from the window and flew away before he could move. He dressed in unhurried movements, seeing the still grey-gold sky of the early morning. He broke his fast with Aragorn who was Wingfoot or Strider or any of a number of names he called himself in all the langauges of Middle Earth. Eomer promised the villagers his men would come with provisions for the winter, that the Riddermark would be better protected than it has been, that he would remember them always. A small girl with one arm held up a flower, a daisy, he tucked it into his breast plate so it’s wilting head could be seen and rode off with his men at his call.

 

            By the fifth village Eomer wasn’t seeing individuals. He was seeing faces upon faces and they were all the same and all so very different. They were all hurting. All starving and wounded and proud. One man had said, Thank you, sire. But we do not need charity. Eomer had stared at the bloated stomach of the man’s starving son and had wanted to shake him and scream and yell at him and tell him to abandon his damned Rohirrim pride. Abandon this stubbornness that is so native to our people. For the sake of your son tarnish your stubborn, arrogant, proud name.  
            By the fifth village Eomer wanted to wretch off the side of his saddle and tell his men that they were going home. He wanted to save every last person but couldn’t remember their names. Couldn’t remember their faces. Only their hunger and their fear and their hope in seeing him on horseback.  
            ‘I can’t live up to it all,’ he said one night in front of the fire to no one in particular. Aragorn-king-brother had said, ‘You must and you will. It will become easier with time, I think.’ He paused then added, ‘I hope.’

  
            ‘Let’s remember the moment we first touched our glasses,’ one of his men said. They were in an inn in a larger village and buying the innkeeper out of his stock. ‘Let’s drink for the moment I first saw her, I swore she was an image.’  
            ‘Let’s drink for the moment when our dreams will come true,’ another added.  
            ‘For the moment when she says yes.’  
            ‘For the moment when I see my son born.’  
            ‘For the moment I lay my head down and call that pillow home.’  
            ‘For the moment we see Edoras again.’  
            ‘For the moment we see clear sky and feel warm sun.’  
            ‘For the moment I first saw her, I thought she was an image.’    
            ‘For the moment I see the sea for the first time.’  
            ‘For the moment I bred my first horse.’  
            ‘For the moment I had my first drink.’  
            ‘For the moment I heard Theoden-king cry, For death!’  
            ‘For the moment I remember her face.’  
            ‘For the moment I forget their’s.’  
            ‘For the moment I first saw her, I thought she was an image.’ 

  
            When Eomer woke he stumbled into the main room, head aching and eyes wincing at the sun. He growled to Aragon, ‘who decided last night was a good idea?’  
            ‘I think you had a fair amount to do with it.’ The look was inquiring. ‘You said, if I remember correctly, ‘for the moment I forget their face’. Or something to that effect.’ Eomer shrugged, shoved some bread into his mouth. It was dry and dusty. He was haggard, beyond exhausted; there were no words in Rohirrim to describe his state.  
            ‘We’re heading back today. I think we’ve tarried too long from Edoras.’ He smiled. Tried to smile. He knew his brother-king saw right through it. ‘I’ll rally the men as soon as they’re fed.’ He wanted to say, I wish I had a plan. I wish I had some understanding of how my life is to work out. I wish I knew what I’m supposed to be doing. I wish – I wish – I wish.  
            But Aragorn nodded. He nodded and nodded and ate some bread and said, As you wish, brother-king. He didn’t ask about the haggard-hung over look on Eomer’s face. The tired, too many dreams in too short of time, eyes. He didn’t ask. Didn’t ask. Didn’t ask.   
            With the sun high and mighty the rode south. Rode fast and hard and strong.  
            On that final day they rode. And at night Eomer dreamt strange dreams and woke and wished that the past had not happened. On that final day they rode and they all dreamt and they all wished their dreams were not memories.

  
            ‘There are children who have always known a dark sky in the east,’ Eomer opened as Edoras came into view. Stark and strong against the landscape. ‘There are children who only know this war and not peace.’  
            ‘And we will make it right with them,’ Aragorn replied softly.  
            ‘I sometimes dream of the dead. Of my uncle, my cousin, friends. Do you dream of the dead?’  
            The king of Gondor was silent a length. He stared at the horizon, looked towards the gapping mountians in the distance. At last he sighed, ‘Yes.’ He paused. ‘I dream of a man, the son of the Steward of Gondor. I dream of his death. I see him dying most nights. Him or Gandalf falling and screaming for us to fly. Or both, one after another.’  
            There was nothing but the sound of birds, of horses, of armour. ‘I am sorry, Aragorn. I didn’t mean to remind you of them.’  
            ‘It’s all right. Gandalf is still with us. And Boromir.’ Oh how he paused. Oh how he went still on his horse. ‘Boromir, above all men, deserves remembrance. We sang for him, after he died.’  
            ‘Fitting for such a warrior.’  
            Here Aragorn paused again. Paused long and hard and silent. The grass moved softly around them, their horses knickered and whinnied, swords clanked against leather and mail. At last the older man sighed and said, Best we speak no more of this. And Eomer had no heart to ask him why. Much later, that night after feasting for the returned king, he saw Aragorn sitting with his queen and humming a song about the west wind walking, about a man tall and dark in empty lands and passing into the shadows of the north, about roaring falls and cold towers, clear and mighty, and in the end Aragorn sang soft and low of what the waters brought and gave.  
            Arwen took her husbands arm and said something in her language and Aragorn smiled and said in common tongue, He is dead and I want so much to tell him that the White City still stands, that I did as he asked in a dying breath.  
            ‘You fulfilled your promise, my love, and so much more.’ But she couldn’t reach him, Eomer saw. She couldn’t though she wanted to. He wondered, as he drifted from the hall to the courtyard to the gardens, if Aragorn would ever let her see all of him or would he forever be Ellesar and the King and the destined one of legend.

 

            He said to Grima one night, It must be hard, living a life that has already been written. Grima had said, No more difficult than living a life that has yet to be writ. By the way, m’lord, shall I put in that Gamling pissed himself on Pellenore field or no? And Eomer had laughed and said, Sure, I’m tired of ballads, but only if you include that you did it yourself. Oh ho, I heard it from Gamling that you had. And also put in that you cried for your mother when you fell.  
            Grima shrugged, If it would please you, sire.  
            Eomer turned, stared hard, wanted to say – What would please me is – is – is what? He waited for a moment and Grima watched him wait. ‘You will ride north with me after my guests have left.’  
            ‘Sire?’  
            ‘You will ride north with me to see what damage you have done.’ 


	10. What News from the North, Riders of Rohan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY! 
> 
> Also, this is the chapter that shows Grima’s ultimate battle strategy: Running away very, very fast

_Rohan is the land of the Horselords (self proclaimed long enough for others to believe). We were founded in the first age and our murky history is a debated subject. Regardless of the contested past (are we of Numenor decent, are we of a broken line, how close related are we to Gondor? And who, of the two, is the superior Man?) Eorl is known to be our first kind._

_Gondorians call us Middle Men, not as superior as they are but more superior than the Dark Men who worked for Sauron, Lord of Mordor. Gondor would have the world believe, though, that it is superior in all things even when it is clearly not. But that is another story._

_After Eorl we styled ourselves Eorlingas and we followed his son Brego then Aldor and after him was Frea then Freawine. Goldwine came next then Deor and Gram and Helm Hammerhand (the builder). Helm Hammerhand’s nephew Frealaf Hildeson succeeded him and after came Brytta and Walda and Folca. From Folca came Folcwine then Fengel (who we do not remember with pride) and Thengel. Succeeding Thengel was Theoden who is to play a part in this here our story. The king as this is written is Theoden’s nephew Eomer, son of Eomund._

Grima sighed and set the leaf aside and snuffed out the candle. It was a yellow waxed one and gave sallow light. He never thought of it before, the importance of the beautiful white candles and their thick wicks and clear light. A clean light that he hadn’t seen in a very long time. The quills and ink were carefully packed away, tied up and tucked into a sack next to a spare tunic. The spare tunic, he corrected himself. And soft fabrics, I hadn’t thought I’d be back to rough hewn ones. But then, I hadn’t thought much about what would happen after it all ended.

 

 

‘I don’t expect contrition,’ he explained to Eowyn who was dubious of the endeavour. ‘I don’t expect sorrow or regret. But I want him to see what he has done.’

Eowyn gave her brother a wan smile, ‘You have always been the hopeful one of the two of us. I always took heart in it.’

‘And you have always been the brave one of the two of us, sister.’ He shifted behind his desk, feeling the seat was too hard and the papers in front of him too great. ‘I need someone to help me with these, I can’t manage them myself.’ He caught Eowyn’s face and laughed, ‘don’t worry, I wasn’t going to commandeer you into the dirty deed. I was thinking maybe old Gamling needs a break from patrol. Or Heorot, he’s young and educated.’

‘He’s not of noble birth, if you care about such things.’

‘New age, I suppose we shouldn’t. If the noble lords of the past had been as superior as they would have us believe they were, the world wouldn’t have come to this.’ Eomer sighed and fingered a missive in crude hand. ‘Eowyn, I don’t know anything about grain supply routes or readying a country for winter or redistributing supplies appropriately.’

‘You will learn. There are those around you who do and who will gladly teach you. Send for Heorot while you are in the north, let him manage the papers here, which seem to have grown since our uncle was king.’ She paused. ‘I hadn’t realised we were to become a people of the written tongue.’

‘It was brought to my attention that sometimes it’s best to write things down.’

Eowyn looked at the papers, looked at her brother who was tired and restless at the same time, looked out the window to the blue sky and bright sun. She could hear the hobbits laughing in another room. In front of the hall men were speaking, occasional gruff voices made their way in. The world is changing, she thought. Perhaps it is best we learn to change with it.

‘When do you leave for the north again?’

‘After the company has left. Next week, I believe. You are to be wed and return to Gondor?’ He asked it shyly, feeling as though he was infringing in a world he little understood.

‘I am,’ she smiled. A real smile, a rare smile. ‘I’ll be quite safe and I’ll be quite happy, you need not worry about me.’

‘Ah, but I’m your brother. In absence of a doting father it’s my duty to worry for you and to glare unnecessarily at your suitor.’

Laughing Eowyn said, Well someone must, I suppose. Faramir has had it far too easy. Now come, brother-king, I’m going to force wedding preparations on you. Oh no, don’t play the busy king card, when I walked in here you were doodling in the corners of court papers. Come, brother-mine, time to learn a new meaning of the word Tedious.

 

Eowyn said, Brother, I think Faramir and I will remain here a while longer. We will keep the lady Arwen company as the others leave. She didn’t say, Because she is losing her father. Because she is losing all she has ever known and I think, brother-mine, that we know a thing about that. She didn’t say, Because it will finally be quiet here in these golden halls and sometimes that silence hurts more than all the leave-takings this great earth has to offer.  She didn’t say, Because I, too, am losing a close friend, a brother in arms.

‘That is good of you,’ Eomer murmured. ‘I will return within a week then you and Faramir can return to Gondor.’

When the hobbits took their leave Eowyn presented Merry with horn and said, ‘My dear Merry, the bravest of hobbits, take this and remember our house and our people and our land.’ The hobbit bowed low and Eomer wondered how he could have thought the young man not strong enough, not brave enough for battle. When the group made final preparation to leave he found Samwise the wise hobbit and said, ‘I’ll miss our conversations.’            

The hobbit nodded, folded a grey cloak. ‘I’ll miss them as well, my lord. But, well, it’s time to go home, I think.’ He set the cloak in a bag and started on a tunic. ‘There’s a lot to be said for these adventures but there’s nothing quite like a homecoming. But I worry that for Mr Frodo –‘ he sighed.

‘That it wont be home?’

Sam nodded, shook his head. He fingered the straps on his bag, looked out the door to the golden hall, the bright sunny day. ‘I think it will be a long time before Mr. Frodo feels at home, if indeed he ever does.’

 

During the parting Grima stayed towards the back of the crowd. A grey-black shade among many. The sky was cool, the earth warm and green and yellow. Eomer had said that this would be an Elvish Summer and would linger long into the autumn.

Gamling, old and in his winter years, stood next to the new king with a still face and haggard eyes. The rest of the men were young, battle weary to be sure, but still young. Grima was again reminded how it all had changed. Changed and changed and weren’t they all running to keep up? Weren’t they screaming for time to stop for five minutes so they could gather themselves, morn properly for a day, and then let the steady forward motion of time carry them on.

           

After the leave taking Grima retreated to his hide away in the garden. A small place by the southward wall, tucked between grape vine and Fangorn creeper. He read an old book in the dying light, the words already long memorised, and longed for the libraries of Gondor. What lore was hidden in spider-webbed halls, dusty shelves. He remembered Denethor, he vaguely remembered Ecthelion, he couldn’t remember but had heard of Turgon – the line of the stewards. They had been wise in the lore of Gondor, of Middle Earth. They remembered things all others had forgotten. They had clung to the whispers of the past in their white, stone walls. What good, he mused. What good did it do them in the end?

When Eomer found him, late, the moon was up and small, and stars were pin pricks in the night, he sighed his welcome.

‘How fares you, my lord?’ He asked as Eomer milled about, restless.

‘Well.’ He lied. Grima nodded. The king played with a creeper leaf before dropping it. He poked a berry. ‘Poisonous?’ Grima nodded. ‘You and your poisons.’ Grima repeated himself. Eomer waited a moment. Compared the leaves of the creeper and the grapes, smiled faintly. ‘You’ve had relatives die.’ He stopped. Thought about how to proceed. ‘I suppose we all have. But my parents died when I was young, I don’t think I truly understood what death was when it happened.’

Grima stared. Waited. He could outwait a rock if he had to. Eomer, he knew, wasn’t speaking to him so much as the night air.

‘I keep expecting them to come back in. I keep expecting to see my cousin. I keep waiting for my uncle to open the door and say, Well that was a lark.’

‘Eomer, your uncle would never have said that. Your uncle never had a lark in his life.’

They stared at each other. Grima could hear horses somewhere beyond the walls. And suddenly Eomer was laughing. The air relaxed into something gentler.

‘No, I suppose he wouldn’t have. But still, you catch what I mean?’

‘Phantom relatives illness. Similar to if you lose a limb, you always think your hand is still there, your leg, what have you. It’s the same with those to whom you were close. They don’t leave, ever, really. But they do fade softer into the background.’

But Eomer wasn’t listening. He was looking at the creeper and the grape leaves, he was looking at their berries, he was saying, It’s so strange, how the poisonous one grows up alongside the good one. And Grima caught the king’s eye and said, But, my lord, you can make poison out of most things. If you know how to turn it.            

 

When they rode north Eomer left Elfhelm in charge with Gamling as aid. Eomer and his guard followed the trail of the Fellowship north a ways then broke out into the eastfold. Grima was given a horse and a sneer, Hopefully it will bear you. And he had shrugged, I don’t think horses mind the affaires of man.

Eomer had said to his sister, It’s not for him, more for my sense of peace. To know he has seen. But now, as he rode, he found that no, no, he wanted some regret to be shown. Some contrition, some semblance of understanding.

They rode to the first village he and Aragorn had visited. There they were greeted by the same man who had greeted Eomer before. The men of the village looked at Grima much the same as they looked at all of the king’s men. A nameless, faceless man wearing the colours of the king who was here on the king’s bidding. It was the first time no one knew him. And when Eomer introduced his men, finally coming to him, Grima son of Galmud, no recognition was on their faces. Now, a named but still faceless man in the colours of the king.             ‘It’s strange, not being known.’ He said that night. Eomer scowled, Had you wanted to be known? Infamous in the land of Rohan? ‘Oh, no. Hardly. I’ve just grown accustomed to ignoring dirty looks and muttered insults. It’s odd, to not have to block anything out.’

Eomer didn’t respond. He looked up at the sky, ‘I wonder how the stars got there. Did the men of old at Orthanc ever discover a reason?’

‘One wrote that he thought them the children of the sun. The sun was a firebird who had a daughter, the moon. She did something wrong, the writer didn’t say what, and so she was banished to the darkness. The stars are other banished children.’

‘A sad tale.’

‘Another wrote that the sun is pulled across the sky by a horse lord,’ he smiled a fraction. ‘Not one of our kindred, sadly. And the stars are the sparks cast off by the hooves of the horse. The Wild Men once told stories of the stars being the eyes of the dead, later stories are that they are the souls of those who have died.’ Grima paused, glanced over and found Eomer pensive. ‘But they are just stories, my lord.’

‘And you don’t hold with fables?’

An old conversation. A wan smile. Grima shrugged, Sometimes I do. Sometimes I don’t. With rings, now, I do. With stars, not as much. What do you think?

‘I liked the one where they are the eyes of the dead.’

‘I don’t.’ The older man frowned, thinking, I shouldn’t have said that.

‘No, I didn’t think you would.’

 

 

They rode to another village and Eomer asked where their graves were. They had come to pay respect to the ones who had died and to help rebuild for a few days. No special accommodation was needed for them. No feasting was necessary. Oh, all right, fine, he’ll drink some of the best wine the village has.

‘They would think they are dishonouring you if they don’t offer,’ Gamling explained when Eomer complained. ‘It is only polite.’

‘I wouldn’t want to be a burden on them.’

‘Then you’re at cross purposes, Eomer-king. They want you to be a burden on them. It’s kingly, is it not?’

‘Oh, it’s something but I wouldn’t call it kingly.’

Gamling laughed and said that he would grow used to it, with time.

 

Grima was located the next morning. ‘You’re helping me tend to the graves, come on.’ A shovel was thrust into his hands. ‘Then you’re helping them rebuild their granary.’

‘I don’t know how to build.’ It was a whine and he wanted to take it back. Say it was arrogance, with some force, with something that didn’t sound like a petulant child.

‘You’ll learn, then.’

They worked in silence. Repairing desecrated graves, mending and decorating new ones. A box of Simbelmyne seeds was produced and a few were planted. Eomer wanted to explain that the dead were worthy of the flowers of the kings because they had died because of kings. And he turned to Grima to explain but found he didn’t want to, and perhaps didn’t need to.

They rested in the late afternoon, the older man unusually quiet.

‘What are you thinking about?’ Eomer asked over cheese and bread.

‘Dreams,’ Grima said. They went back to silence.

 

At the next village they dug and built. And at the next. And the next. There were recent attacks and Eomer was thinking about plans, about solutions, about needing more men and time. He was wondering how other kings have managed this. It came so easy to the one’s of old.

One night, between villages, they were heading south again, making a circle back to Edoras, Grima threw the box of seeds towards Eomer.

‘They were left near my saddle bag last night. Thought you would want them.’

Eomer tossed them back. ‘Yours now, you’re planting them in the remaining villages.’

Grima nodded, fingered the etching of the flower on the box. It was old wood, worn smooth. Eomer watched and said that it had belonged to his mother. The first seed he had planted from it had been on her grave.

‘Poetic.’ Grima said before giving a slight bow. ‘Good night, my lord.’

Eomer watched him go and wanted to call him back. Wanted to say, Sit here by me a while and tell me of the stars. Tell me all of the old stories and fables you know. Tell me anything and everything, just so I have someone’s voice to listen to. He waited a minute then said, ‘Stay here a minute.’

Grima was between shadows. Between the fire and the darkness of the night. Around them men were sleeping. Halrot was on guard duty, at the edges of the camp.

‘As you wish, my lord.’ He moved and sat by the fire.

There was silence. Eomer tossed small sticks and stones into the fire and watched them light up then fade into ash. He could feel Grima watching him and not watching him. He was certain Grima could feel him watching him and not watching him in return. In the distance a dog was barking. The horses shifted, nickered, made gentle snorting noises.

‘How are you settling into your life?’ Eomer asked when the silence was finally too much. He kept his eyes on the fire, on the horses beyond, on the sleeping men around.

‘Well enough,’ was the equivocal answer. And Eomer-king wanted to call bull shit but held his tongue. The third marshal of the mark would have called bull shit. But he wasn’t that anymore. Instead he finally turned and gave Grima carefully blank look.

‘I’m glad to hear it.’

‘You visit often enough for someone who knows I’m not to be trusted.’

‘Keep enemies close, I think is the advice.’

‘You’re assuming I’m an enemy.’

Eomer waited in the silence. Waited for something more but there was nothing. Grima sighed, I’m going to bed, my lord. It’s late. You should get some sleep.

‘What dreams were you thinking about the other day?’ Again he caught Grima between shadows and light. The older man’s back remained towards him.

‘Old ones. Ones I had thought I had forgotten.’

‘Grima.’

Back was still to him.

‘Yes?’

‘Sleep well.’

Back was still very much to him. Shoulders were tense then un-tense then tense.

‘Thank you, my lord. You as well.’

 

The next day neither said a word to the other. A few houses needed mending. Roofs re-thatched, walls rebuilt. Grima whacked his thumb five separate times and Gamling laughed at him before showing him how to hit the nail but not his hand.

That night Eomer said, Stay here a minute.

Grima said, As you wish, my lord.

The golden king of the golden hall asked, How goes our history? The one Gamling unloaded on you. Where you’re supposed to write how we all pissed ourselves during the battle.

‘It goes along, my lord. Though,’ he paused. Men of Rohan, he knew, were not the most vocal of people. But the king had asked and he was staring at him and waiting for something more. ‘Though, I’m finding it hard to write.’ Eomer didn’t respond. He continued to wait. He threw a small stick into the fire. ‘I find it hard to start.’

‘Start from the beginning.’

Grima laughed. Oh, my lord Eomer, if only it was that easy. But what is the beginning? When did It Start? Who is to say, this here, this is the action that set it all in motion.

‘Start from the beginning,’ he repeated. ‘From Sauron’s creation of the ring, the last alliance, the losing of the ring, the fall of Isildur, then on to now. I’m sure it will be forgiven if you skim over a few bits. It doesn’t seem that hard.’

‘Then you should write it.’

‘It’s been tasked to you. What have you written so far?’

Grima didn’t answer. He stared at the fire. He stared and Eomer waited. Eomer, Grima was learning, was very good at waiting when he had mind to be.

‘I had a bit about the first dark lord, before Sauron. And a bit about the history of Rohan and the last alliance.’

An encouraging nod. ‘Very good, very good. Now, where are you?’

‘At the beginning again.’

Eomer waited. Eomer bloody waited. And Grima was annoyed but liked the king in profile with fire light so didn’t dare move in case the younger one moved.

‘I’m at the beginning again,’ he repeated. ‘Due to, due to having thrown everything else off the top of Orthanc.’

Silence. The fire crackled. Grima thought madly, he has a noble profile. Like those bloody kings of old, whoever the hell they were. He thought madly, they looked like little white birds. Little white birds falling.

‘It was very therapeutic.’ He offered when it became too much. ‘I felt much better afterwards.’

‘This was when I had sent you to find the missing papers?’

‘Yes my lord.’

‘And you threw your writing off the top of Orthanc?’

‘Yes my lord.’

A moment then Eomer began laughing to himself. After another moment he quieted. ‘You are a very strange man, Grima son of Galmud.’

‘Thank you, my lord.’

‘You’re welcome?’

 

_When the dark lord Sauron created the rings of power he looked upon the world and all the domains that were now his and saw that it was good._

_It has been said, by some who are deemed wise, that all things created with the purpose of being used to continue creation must be evil. For only the gods can create. But then, one must wonder, why did the gods create us with the ability to create? And what if the intent is good? Is the judging of things to be done based on ends only?_

Gods, gods, gods. Grima stared at the writing. He turned the leaf over and started again. The ink well was balanced on his knee, the vellum spread over a piece of flat wood. He began,

_When the dark lord Sauron created the rings of power he made them each in the likeness of his ring. In likeness in their ability to corrupt the mind, the soul, and heart. Nine rings were gifted to the race of man, weak willed and hearted. Seven to the dwarf lords in their mountain halls. And three to the elves, who believe that they are the wisest and fairest of us all. And for himself, the dark lord created one ring. One to rule them all and into it he poured his malice, his cruelty, and his will to dominate each race. Or so the legend says._

Eomer sat opposite, watching the older man write. There was a fire between them and the men moved about the camp, readying themselves for sleep. It was a quiet night, clear and warm. Above them the stars glittered, the great expanse of the heavens bore down. He thought of the souls of the dead. Of the Wild Men and their unknown, hidden ways through the woods.

‘Beginning at the beginning?’ He said when Grima appeared to have stalled.

‘Yes, sire.’

‘Going to throw it off the next peak we come to?’ There was a slight smile.

‘Possibly. I haven’t ruled it out. Would that be more dramatic than throwing it in the fire?’

‘Only if the wind doesn’t cause them to fly back into your face.’

Grima snorted and bent back over the vellum. Eomer could see the edges curling from the heat of the fire. A few more lines were scratched down. The ink well was precarious. Its black ink was reflecting the gold of the fire. ‘The halflings of the north paint portraits,’ he said. Grima glanced up, black hair in pale face. ‘You look like a portrait. With the light.’ The older man stared with snake-blue eyes. Eomer sighed, hauled himself up, said something about seeing to the horses. Later, Grima thought, Oh, Eomer-king was running away. Later, Grima wondered what exactly the king had meant by it all but was too tired to find out.

_Perhaps Sauron poured something else into the ring. Perhaps he poured his hopes and dreams. We do not know. We will never know. Unfortunately, every account of a war is always written by the winning side._

 

The next day, after Eomer declared that they would be returning to Edoras in two days time, the king asked the traitor – Why did you do it? And the traitor said, Because I didn’t like how it was written.

‘What?’ Eomer asked. He reined his horse closer. And if he looked hard enough he could see the exhaustion on Grima’s face, the lines and creases he didn’t remember being there a year ago.

‘Burning more of my false starts. I didn’t like how it was going, my lord.’

‘I was speaking of your treason. Why?’

It was warm and the sun was hot, Grima thought about the sky. He thought about Orthanc. Gods, when was the last time I thought about Saruman? When was the last time I thought about the no-longer-white wizard? He lingered over the nights, the days, the musty library, the cold stone. The living dead stone of Orthanc.

‘You know, I can’t remember.’ He kept his eyes ahead. Eomer was staring, he knew. Eomer was watching and waiting. ‘But I think – I think it was part from fear, part from greed, ambition. And part…’ He licked his lips. ‘Do you know that there is this device, this machine, that can make books? As in, you arrange these stamps on it to spell out what you want and then you press the ink onto the parchment. You could make hundreds of books, hundreds of the same book.’ He stopped, unsure how to explain. How to explain what an amazing thing this is, what it would mean for Rohan, for Gondor, for Middle Earth.

'Why would you want that?’ Eomer asked. Grima wasn’t looking at him. He was still staring at the horizon. The grey-green sea of grass before them. The ever approaching outline of a village.

‘Because then we wont loose stories. If one library is burned, one town sacked, there will more than one version of their books.’ He risked a glance and found Eomer expressionless. Listening. But softer than he had seen him before. ‘That’s part of what caused this, everyone forgot about Sauron save the elves, but they weren’t very good at putting two and two together or warning us when they had.’

‘And we weren’t too keen on heeding them when they tried,’ the king added.

‘As you say, my lord. But had we had the histories, the stories, from the old ages we would have known. Had more than just Denethor known we would have had a better chance, from the beginning. But with that,’ he sighed. ‘We had a mad steward who was convinced we were all doomed and an old king who was never much of a leader. It could have been different.’ Eomer was still staring, still watching with blue eyes. Grima shrugged, ‘and who knows what else has been lost. What knowledge we once had that is gone.’

There was silence for a moment. The men around them were making conversation, the grass was whispering in the wind, there were birds calling in the distance. Finally Eomer said, ‘so you committed treason for…books?’

‘If you want to see it that way, my lord, by all means.’

Eomer turned his attention to the sky, to the men around them, and he thought that if Grima son of Galmud, that damned man, had said it any more calmly he would have punched him. Hard. Across the jaw. Because it had been so casual. So _bloody_ casual.

‘Well, you have your hand in the story writing now.’

Grima didn’t respond. They both watched the village arrive, slowly and steadily, across the plains. Above them, somewhere, a bird called. Shrill. A man behind them whistled back. Shrill. There was the howl through the grass. Shrill.

 

 

It came upon them suddenly. That night, as the king and his men and the village slept peacefully. A whistle then a thunk as something sharp was lodged into wood. A watchman gave a yell as a flaming arrow was shot into a thatched roof with fire soon spreading. A few more followed for good measure.

Eomer was out in minutes, sword in hand, ordering men to look sharp. ‘Pull them off their horses, if you can,’ he hollered. ‘Form a line, form a line!’ He grabbed a confused Grima, shoved a knife into his hand. ‘More blade practice,’ a mirthless grin. ‘I promised I’d make a warrior out of you yet.’

‘Does my principle of, ‘stab anything and it’s bound to be an enemy’ apply here? Ohfuck,’ he ducked as a blade missed his head by seconds. He opened his eyes to see Eomer dragging the man off his horse, a quick thrust of steel through his throat and he was on to the next.

‘So long as you’re aiming for horsemen, I think.’ He pulled another down, nodding with satisfaction as head cracked on an exposed rock. ‘Just pull them down and stab, keep to the side of the horse.’

Grima whirled around, stared up into the mad eyes of a warhorse, cursed the gods and tried to yank the rider off only to fall back as the horse spooked and reared. A second later and he was back up and watching as a man ran towards him, sword raised. He looked down at the knife, back up at the charging man, turned and ran. A few houses later he managed to duck behind a stable to catch his breath, peaking around he found the man dead with a spear through his throat and out his rectum. Innards are grey, Grima thought as he stared at the body. His innards are grey but for the blood. A hand grabbed him, jerking him back to the present.

‘Great warrior,’ Eomer said laughing. ‘I think you did better at Pellenore.’

‘I had fewer places to run.’ He grumbled, pulling away. The hand was warm and the night air cool. The sounds of battle were fading. ‘And more options on ways to die.’

‘If you insist,’ the young king said, still amused. He picked up the dead man’s sword and handed it, butt first, to Grima. ‘It’s easier if you have more than a dirk on you.’ The older man took the blade and nodded, tied down the rising wave of nausea and followed Eomer back out into the fray.

           

After they had routed the party Eomer sent a few of his men out to scout. ‘It was just a foraging party, I’m sure of it.’ He said as he helped pile the bodies outside the village. ‘There’ll be more. Best to get back to Edoras as soon as possible and form a proper eorid.’ His men nodded, hauled bodies, did their duties and didn’t look into the faces of the dead. It was different with Orcs, with creatures that weren’t human. That didn’t look like your flesh and blood. There were boys amongst the dead, young men, old.

‘These are not evil men,’ Gamling murmured. ‘These are just men trying to survive.’

Eomer nodded, clapped a hand on Gamling’s shoulder, and turned back to the village.

           

That night he found Grima writing against a stall in the barn. The older man startled but then said, Only flat surface. Bit difficult though, vertical.

‘There’s a desk of sorts in my room you can use,’ Eomer offered as he pulled out polish and grease. ‘Have you tended to your saddle recently?’

A look. A sigh. ‘Of course. I was raised in Rohan, my lord king. I don’t need to be reminded on how to take care of horse and kit.’ He paused, added another line before lowering the sheet. ‘These aren’t wild men.’ He said, watching Eomer. The golden king’s hair was in his face, he was oiling buckles and leather. His hands were rough hewn and calloused. Grima thought, And those aren’t the hands of a king. Those are the hands of a horseman.

‘No,’ Eomer agreed not looking up. ‘They were Rohirim.’

They didn’t speak for a minute. There was an owl hooting in he distance. The hush of hooves on hay and the crunch of feed. The rub-rub-rub of Eomer’s cloth on leather. Eomer looked up at last and found the snake cold water blue eyes staring back. He wondered why he had ever thought them watery. It was the twilight of early, milky grey morning. He wondered what he was doing. He watched himself set the cloth down. He watched himself cross the floor, boots quiet, the only noise being the horses. He watched himself place a hand on the older man’s shoulder, he watched him flinch then go very, very, achingly still. He watched himself lean down and he thought, I sometimes forget that he’s shorter than me. That he’s smaller than me underneath these robes and tunic. He watched himself push Grima against the post and kiss him. Open mouthed and hungry. He watched himself and wondered what he was doing. He felt hands tentatively resting on his arms, feather light and fleeting. He pushed his own through hair and cupped the back of Grma’s head, pulling him closer. There was the sound of paper hitting floor. Then the other man’s fingers were on his chest and pushing away. He let go and opened his eyes. Grima’s were still closed and he looked as if he was about to run. When they snapped opened it felt like a stone had been thrown into his stomach. Grima stared for a minute before whispering, very hushed, Good night, sire. He gave an awkward bow and disappeared into the early morning light.

Eomer thought, This has got to be the stupidest decision I have ever made. 


	11. To Do Service in a Fashion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arriving Home. Council Meetings. A Story About a Minstrel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies about this taking forever! I hadn't meant it to. 
> 
> "To slay it would be just. But it was not always as it now is. Once it was a man, and it did you service in its fashion."

When Eomer picked up the fallen papers it felt as if an age had passed. The only sounds to be heard were still the horses. Were still the night-time birds. The insects. The breeze. He looked at the writing and found a brief account of the day’s skirmish, a note that the story continues to be written by the winners. A written laugh of ‘aha’ followed.

The next sheet Grima had written about creation and good and evil and rings and legends. That old conversation. That old book of fables bound in elvish silk.

Sighing Eomer carefully finished tending to his saddle and weapons. He thought about grain supplies. He thought about the harvest. He thought about court politics. He dwelled on memories of his cousin. He mused on his sister and the nature of marriage. He thought about the first winter of his kingship and wondered what it would bring.

The rooms were quiet when he slipped back to his men. In a dark corner Grima was curled and presumably sleeping. The golden king stood over him with papers and ink and quill. He stared. Thought about nothing. He then noticed that the man didn’t let his hair down when he slept. Around them Eomer’s men slept. As carefully as he could he returned the writing supplies to their proper places and decided that he would deal with it all in the morning.

 

The dawn came and the men left after the burial of the dead. The king rode at the front with cloak flapping in the wind, his helm shining bright with fair hair and eye.

And the king thought, This is such a travesty of who I am and what this world really is and maybe I need to not speak to Grima son of Galmod called Wormtongue because he would say that I am something self-created, in this moment, and creation is, it seems, to be deemed evil.

 

By a stream as they watered their horses Eomer caught the older man by his sleeve.

‘I’m sorry,’ he began.

‘My lord.’

‘I shouldn’t have. Presumed. It won’t happen again.’ Said stoutly. There is no doubt.

‘My lord.’

They were standing, not looking at each other and Eomer was suddenly angry and snarling, ‘Don’t you have anything else to say?’

‘Yes.’ Grima pat his horse. Eomer thought he looked a little sad.

‘Well?’

‘I’m not sure of the words.’

‘I thought all you had were words.’

A nod. The older man pulled his horse back from the stream. It knickered, it’s head bumping up and down. It pawed the earth. ‘Usually,’ he agreed. ‘But not always.’

‘What do you use then?’

‘Silence.’  

 

 

 

 

‘I once asked you what you dreamt about.’ It was a conciliatory question. They were a day’s ride from Edoras and Eomer needed something to speak on.

‘My lord, you did.’

‘Have they changed?’

On the plains the sky is open and fierce and unrelenting. It is blue and blue with jagged scars of white that are clouds with harsh press of heat that is sun. At night it is dark and deep and the souls of the dead look down on the souls of the living. During storms it is great and terribly and there are thunderheads hanging low and heavy and dangerous all around.

Grima glanced at the golden-king. He was young and brave if not a little more worn than what Grima had remembered. It made him start, that he still saw Eomer as the young third marshal of the mark. He rarely looked at the man as a king, just as one tries not to look at the sun lest one be blinded.

‘Memories, still, my lord.’ He answered after a moment.

‘Your sister?’

‘You remember.’ Grima noted this with disinterest. Eomer peered at him. ‘I hadn’t thought you would.’

‘I don’t know that I believe you.’

‘Probably wise, my lord. I’ve been told I have a forked tongue.’ He stopped. Tugged on the reigns and moved a little ahead.

‘Wait,’ Eomer followed. ‘I did not mean to bring up things painful.’

Grima tilted his head to the side. He studied the horizon. He did not study the man next to him from the corner of his eye.

‘Have you ever – yes, you have, never mind.’

‘What?’

‘Nazgul.’ The sun was very bright. The sky was very blue. Grima liked the colour, it reminded him of Eomer’s eyes when the man was angry. ‘Do you know that they smell you rather than see you? They climb off their horses, or sort of slither-fall off their horses, and sniff after you. Along the ground like an animal. They are completely covered. That is, there is nothing that does not have armour or cloth on it but they are very cold. It can be mid-summer and they are still very cold. I heard that they can smell our blood.’ He paused in thought. The wind picked up around them and danced. ‘Saruman,’ the name is spat. ‘Said that they do have the ability to see. But not in the way we do. They do not rely on the light but rather on the dark. They see shadows against the night and the shadows are us. Which is why the hunted in the night. When our fears were tangible and we all reeked of them. Sauruman said that any man who escapes them is a lucky one. They do not let prey go lightly.’

Eomer thought on this. He looked at the tangles in Grima’s hair. The black webs collapsing in on one another and all pulled together with a piece of string. He remembered when it had been silver. The king wanted to ask – Were you one of the lucky? But he knew better. Grima took his time but eventually all stories circled back to the beginning.

At last the older man sighed. ‘Yes, my lord king, Eomer son of Eomund, still memories.’ He turned and finally looked at Eomer. ‘You do know that I am not a good man, correct?’

Eomer stared back. ‘Of course. But men change.’

‘Do they? Do you know I have sold out every person I have worked for? Well, every person of consequence. The locksmith I was apprenticed to when I nine I did nothing to. Nor the scribe in Gondor. Or that merchant…hm.’

‘Locksmith?’ A short laugh. ‘Well that’s how you get your way around the halls so easily.’

There was a grim smile and Eomer snorted. He muttered that the man shouldn’t take offence. That he thought Grima was all right with things that are true, since one can’t be offended by them.

‘Oh no, not offended.’

‘Never offended.’

‘Hardly.’

‘Occasionally.’

‘My lord.’

Eomer shook his head and murmured, ‘I’ll see to my men.’ He paused. ‘I heard that men are safest from the Nazgul at midday.’

‘Oh they do not prey on my thoughts as they once did. Being that they are dead and gone.’

And the younger man wanted to ask – so what does prey on your thoughts? What is it actually that you remember and forget to forget? What is it actually that you are seeing with you look out so dismally at the plains and the horizon and the sun and the sky.  

 

 

Eomer, that night, dreamt of his cousin. That old dream. Then of his sister on a white boat surrounded by white robes and sails and he couldn’t see her face. She was fading away from him, drifting on a southward current towards a foreign land with a foreign tongue. Her Rohiric accent would fade. Her clothes would be white and greys and blues instead of greens and golds and browns. She would wear gold and not silver. She would be called a woman of Gondor.

His dream moved on and he saw his father lying cold on stone with his mother beside him. He dreamt of riding his first horse. Of learning to put a saddle on and watching it slide sideways after forgetting to tighten the girth a second time.

He woke with the moon still high and his mouth feeling like cotton. By the fire Grima was scratching away at a new sheet of paper. His quill flicking here and there. Eomer watched for a quiet minute before hauling himself up.

‘Are you ever going to finish it?’ He asked as he reached for a bottle of wine one of the men had left out. Grima was foggy eyed and yawning.

‘Do I have an option?’

‘Of course. Free will is part of what makes us human.’

The look he received was a raised eyebrow and pursed lips. The scratching continued. Eomer watched the flames. He dozed off thinking of cold northern streams.

 

 

_This here is an account of the Ride of the Rohirrim in the Third Age during the War of the Ring._

_During the reign of Theoden son of Thengel and uncle of Eomer son of Eomund it became necessary to fulfil the obligation of the Alliance with Gondor. Though Gondor had oft’ failed in her half of the bargain, we Rohan, still feel the need to hang onto the coat tails of our greater southern Sister country._

_In ballads there are speeches of the great deeds of men in warfare. Of glory and honour and duty. Of course, anyone who has fought knows what a lark it all is. That men go to battle and are afraid. That men go to battle and weep. And beg the gods to let them live, let them die._

_On Pellenore fields a man was speared in front of me. He wept for his mother as his hands desperately tried to hold his stomach in. It was slippery and everything was red. Red and red and red with browns and greys and more red. He wept until he couldn’t anymore because there was too much blood in his mouth, on his hands._

_On Pellenore fields I held a sword in battle for the first time. I am different from my countrymen in that I do not like swordplay. I shun bloodshed and let others do the dirty deeds of killing and being killed. I remain with words and books and the safety of anywhere but a battlefield. I had my reasons. They were stupid and terribly misguided now that I look back. Lives are a story and in the stories the good guys always win. Even good guys with less than inspiring leaders. I should have kept my shirt where I had first thrown it._

_During this battle of mine I pissed myself the first time an Orc tried to hew my head off. I stabbed it through the throat and watched black blood run down my sword. It became easier after that._

_On Pellenore I was one of the many who wept. I think I wanted my mother. It has been many years since I have wanted her. Many years. I take my time to forget that I had parents. I take my time to forget I had something like a family._

_On Pellenore the king of Rohan fell. A Nazgul and its beast were to devour him alive but then a warrior stepped between them and the warrior removed their helm and held a sword aloft. The warrior said, I am no man. And slew the Witchking of Angmar._

 

Grima held the pieces of parchment between fingers and thought about burning them. To his right the current king of Rohan slept fitfully, head bowed against a pile of saddle bags. To his left the man called for the second watch flicked twigs into the fire and tried to remain awake. Above him the sky was open and dark.

 

_On Pellenore Rohan gained a new king._

 

He took the new sheaf and tossed it into the fire. He watched it burn. He began anew.

 

_On Pellenore, after the old king perished, a rash man who was nephew to the old, dead king became the new, living king._

 

He wasn’t sure what else to add so set it aside. After a moment he picked it back up again.

 

_Though, he is becoming more tempered. More calm and collected and cool. He will be a good king. If formidable. He feels he has much to live up to and spends his days comparing himself to the living legend that reigns in Gondor. I do not think it fair on him. On Rohan. On myself, really. I hate charity and pity and redemption and every time I see the new golden king of the golden hall that is all I see. I pity the man’s son._

 

 

As Edoras came into view Eomer asked, Was it really just for books?

‘Has it been bothering you, my lord?’

‘It has.’

‘No.’

Eomer was satisfied with this for a moment. Then his expression changed and it became something Grima had never seen before though he thought he had seen all season’s of the young man’s face.

‘What other reasons then?’

Grima shrugged. He thought that it could not be hotter if the weather tried. He thought that he might have already thought that.

‘One’s that I’m sure you can guess, Eomer son of Eomund.’

‘I want to hear them from you.’

‘Do you really? I can write a ballad for you, if you’d like. “The Litany’s of Grima Wormtongue” or “How Grima Wormtongue is really not a very nice man and is confused on why the king of Rohan seems to think he can be better”.’

The king of Rohan laughed. It was bright, like the sun above. Grima thought, _Fuck_ Rohan. After a moment the older man shrugged. He was watching the city on the hill arrive through squinting eyes. His clothes felt too hot though they were just cotton and leather and not much else.

‘Well?’ The younger man prompted.

‘Oh must I? Yes, yes, don’t look at me like that. I know that face, sire. It’s not an attractive one, I wouldn’t use it if I were you. I suppose it was fear, as I’ve told you before. If you look around and see the rulers of man as two old, incompetent men. One prone to regaling you ad nausea with old war stories and from the esteemed line that produced _Fengel_ and the other prone to paranoia and general bouts of closeted insanity well…’ He shrugged. ‘And greed of course. I am a very greedy man. Though it has lessened of late.’

‘Burnt by the fire one too many times?’

A smirk up at the golden king, ‘I do learn quickly, my lord. Once was enough. I’ll keep my peace now. And my quiet little corner. I’ll leave the mess making to younger men.’ He paused in thought. He started a sentence then stopped. ‘Do you remember the story of the minstrel at the banquet when the roof fell in?’

‘I do.’

Grima nodded. There, he said. There it is.  

And the king snorted and waved him off. Fine, fine, son of Galmod. Keep your secrets and don’t answer my questions.

‘Ask a better question.’

He nudged his horse forward before Eomer could reply. Eodras was looming ahead and Grima thought it beautiful. In a stark, barren sort of way. He wondered why he had ever thought it ugly.

 

 

In Edoras Eomer found his country running much as it had when he left. Elfhelm was grinning and ecstatic and eager to show his liege lord all he had done well. Gamling was patient with the young men. He was firm and gentle and kind and wise. Grima wondered when the old warhorse would die. He wondered what the king would do when the inevitable finally happened.

‘And how was your progress north?’ The young horse-lord asked. He and Eomer were sitting with wine and maps. ‘Is there much to repair?’

‘Aye. We helped some, but,’ he sighed. Drank some wine and grabbed a pen. Tracing the northward road he and his men took he made dots at villages along the way. ‘Here is the route and the places we stopped at. A small circle, to be sure, but a taste of what the rest of the country is feeling. I fear this winter will be a difficult one.’

‘And the attacks?’

Eomer gave a humourless smile. ‘I’ll review that at council tomorrow. Is Heorot still in Edoras?’

‘He is, for another fortnight. Then he must return to the Eastfold to see his father who is ailing.’ Elfhelm pours them both another glass. ‘The harvest is coming in well. We will be able to make the winter I think.’

Eomer nodded. He leaned forward and stared hard at the map. Eyes tracing the route that the outlaws were taking, the towns and villages. The small lone farms and grazing fields.

‘Elfhelm-‘

‘Sire?’

‘What do you know of farming?’

The lordling coughed and shook his head. He said not much. Horses, yes. Grain, no. My apologies, sire. Eomer murmured that it was all right. We’re horsemen here. But relying so much on Gondor for grain…

He sat back with a sigh. ‘Inform the council that we will meet tomorrow. There is much to discuss. Now, my lord, if you’ll excuse me. I have yet to greet my sister.’

 

 

Eowyn hugged him and said she was glad he was safe. He realized that this would be one of the last times he would see her after coming back from patrol. That this would be one of the few times he would be allowed to patrol and not rule.

‘There’s an old story,’ he began as he traced the linen that was to be her wedding dress. ‘About a banquet. And everyone gathering together and a minstrel is playing for them. The story says that the man was crafty and sly. He played and usually received more money than he ought to have, having required payment when the lords were drunk and from different sources.

‘During this feast there was a great storm,’ his fingers trace over a rose embroidered with silver thread. ‘The ground trembled, the skies roared, the wind howled, and eventually the roof fell in on the lords. The only one to survive was the minstrel. He had a good memory and could place the men as they were when the roof fell in.’

Eowyn watched him. Her face was unreadable. ‘Why did he survive?’ She asked at last.

‘Because he was a coward and ran and hid. The lords were not, so they died.’

‘Not everything in the world works like that.’

‘No,’ he looked up and saw her face. It was hurt but strong. He marvelled and wondered if he could ever have her strength. ‘Perhaps not.’

‘Brother,’ she was hugging him suddenly. ‘Brother I’m frightened.’

He was hugging her back and couldn’t think of what to say. He thought that it made two of them because he couldn’t breathe sometimes for the terror of it all. This new age. This new country. This new king. This new woman who was his sister whom he no longer recognized because now she smiled and was happy and laughed. He wanted to tear down the world that had made it so he could only see his sister if she was sad or angry or like ice. He wanted to rage that he had never known her happy, would never know her happy.

‘I am too,’ he said at last. ‘Gods I am too.’

 

 

‘You’re the minstrel,’ Eomer said that night. He was speaking to the Fangorn creeper. The garden was empty. He wondered, briefly, where the older man had stolen off to. ‘And I’m not sure what I’m doing.’ He stared at the vine. It held no answers. He looked at the jagged edges of the grape leaves. Hidden between them was the purple of the fruit. Dark and rich and sweet. He plucked one, considered eating it, then decided against. Grima had said, Everything can be poison, if you know how to turn it.

 

 

That night he didn’t sleep. He wandered the halls, made havoc for the staff, and drank too much wine. When dawn broke Gamling found the young king standing on the steps of the golden hall watching as the city slowly awoke.

‘Your cloak, my lord.’ Gamling murmured. ‘It is chilly this morning.’

‘Thank you, Gamling.’ He paused. Held up the dark green fabric and palmed the fraying edges. ‘This belonged to my father.’

‘I know, sire. He was a great man.’

‘Was he? I suppose me must have been. That is all everyone has ever told me. And my mother?’

‘Beautiful.’

Eomer smiled and put the cloak on. ‘Yes, that is what they all say as well.’

 

 

During council Eomer realized why his uncle relied so heavily on Grima. The meetings were tedious. So, so very tedious. Oh god Eomer felt the severe need to stab himself in the eye with his quill just to keep awake. Life _would_ be easier if he gave the task over to another. He sighed, reminded himself that that was probably a terrible decision.

The men were mulling over the news he brought in from the north. A few were wizened, with silver in the beards and heavy grey brows. But most were young, golden haired, eager for more battle as if the last year or so had not given them enough already.

‘Are we certain that they are our own? That they are not wild-men dressed in our armour.’ One of the men asked with a dutiful gruff cough.

‘I saw them for myself,’ Eomer replied evenly. ‘They are Rohirrim, they are us. I think we should offer a chance of their leader to come and argue their cause. There must be a reason they are turning on their own countrymen. Perhaps it is something that can be resolved.’

The men spoke in low voices to each other. Coughing and shuffling. Finally Heorot spoke.

‘Sire, who would be the messenger?’

‘I think a small party, maybe ten _eorid_ , and a representative of the crown.’ The council looked uncomfortable. Eomer smiled. It made them more nervous. ‘It would be a great honour, of course, for whoever volunteered for such a selfless and risky duty. As king, I’d be much indebted to them.’

Next to him Gamling coughed into a fistful of papers. The old soldier reached for his wine and took a gulp. Eomer continued to smile. The council continued to be uncomfortable. At last Godfrey stood, hands flat on the table, and in the half light of the hall he looked much like his father that it hurt.

‘I’ll go, my lord. If you’ll have me.’

The tension relaxed and Eomer nodded, made a motion for the young man to be seated.

‘Thank you, Godfrey. I’ll inform you of the details later. I want to extend a hand to the, the-‘

‘Rebels, sire.’ Gamling offered.

‘I don’t like that word. They’re not rebelling, they’re…looting.’ He settled unhappily. ‘Regardless, I want to offer their leader a chance to state his grievances and make his case. If he will agree to it, we will hold council and see if a solution cannot be procured. You will have ten riders with you of your choosing. Choose men you trust and are loyal to you.’

‘Yes, sire.’

Eomer nodded. He glanced at his notes then stood with a soft sigh. ‘Right, I believe that is all for today. After dinner we will speak, Godfrey. Gamling and Elfhelm as well. Good day.’ The man around the table shuffled, collected their items and departed in slow groups of twos and threes. Once they were gone Gamling turned to the king.

‘Where did you learn that smile?’ He asked after a moment of silence. Eomer was toying with his quill. Was looking at old accounts of revenue and food production.

‘I can’t recall.’

Gamling smirked, ‘your uncle used to use it. When he was young and active in council matters. It seems to be a trait of your house.’

‘A useful one,’ Eomer mused. He grinned at the older man. ‘I’m learning, I think. Though there must be a way to make these meetings more interesting.’

‘Not all of kingship is interesting, my lord.’

‘Sadly, a fact I am quickly finding out.’ Eomer shoved papers into a leather pouch and motioned for Gamling and Elfhelm to follow him. ‘Come, we will have a drink and you can tell me everything that has happened that Godfrey kindly left out of his report.’

 

 

‘Did you ever know my father?’ Eomer found himself asking. Grima was doing something delicate with a lily. Something soft and gentle with the roots.

‘Briefly. By all accounts an honourable man.’

Eomer kicked the ground with his toe. Above them the sky was purple and red. Grima looked up at the noise, his face was set in a scowl.

‘Kindly leave my plants alone. If you want to do violence to something find poor Gamling and harry the man to death with sword practice of something equally sporting.’ Grima’s fingers were brown and black with dirt.

Eomer said, ‘You have a ah-‘ he motioned to his cheek. ‘No, the other one. You made it worse.’

‘Then wait till I’m done.’

They had found an easy silence in the days since their return. Eomer wondered when these things had become easy. He didn’t like to think about how little time had passed since Helms Deep. Or how much.

‘Did you ever speak to him?’

‘Handful of times. I was just a scribe and so, because this is Rohan, terribly bored. Your father asked if I knew the rules to _Tarochi_ and when I didn’t he asked what ales I preferred and when I didn’t have an adequate answer our conversation ended.’ A sigh and he moved on to the next flower. ‘The next time we spoke he looked at me and said, “Son of Galmod” and I replied “my lord?” and he said “could you pass the wine”.’ Grima leaned back on his heels and watched the young king in the dying light. ‘The third conversation was less than pleasant.’

‘Tell me. I like to be reminded that you’re an unpleasant fellow.’

‘I’m flattered that you need to be reminded. I’d have thought you’d have that fact hammered into the forefront of your head.’

There was silence and Grima coughed, pulled a plant forward.

‘A bit of a row. About your uncle. Your father said I wasn’t to be trusted.’ The smile was almost gleeful and predatory. ‘I’m sure you can imagine how it went.’

‘Did you like him? My father?’

‘Oh he was a fine example of mindless duty and honour. The best of men and so unfit to do anything other than kill orcs and prance about in fancy dress on horses. Look, my lord, I’m a bit tired today.’

Eomer nodded. He gently pet a lily petal. He said he’d leave, that he hadn’t meant to bother his _gardener_ since he had such a work load.

‘My lord.’

‘Good evening.’

‘ _Sire._ ’

Eomer’s back was to him but the king could see Grima’s face. The exasperated look. The flickers of sheer frustration and annoyance. The eye rolls.

‘It’s all right.’

‘Eomer.’

‘It’s all right.’

He wanted to say “it’s Eomer _King_ ” but didn’t. If there was once thing had learned of late, it was how to hold his tongue. 


End file.
